Monica
Yeah, why did you stop playing my guy? Youre cooked.
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Honey sat slumped on his desk, posture heavy as though weighed down by invisible chains. His phone rested loosely in his hand, thumb absentmindedly scrolling through endless feeds without truly seeing them. The pale blue glow of the device reflected faintly in his tired eyes, each motion mechanical, empty, as if he was moving only for the sake of movement.
In front of him, his computer monitor cast a different kind of light. The screen, left idle, glowed steadily across the cluttered surface of the desk. Folders, icons, and the faint hum of the machine gave the room a quiet, static presence — as if it were waiting for him to look up, to acknowledge it, to return. The contrast was almost eerie: his attention lost in the small screen of his phone while the larger one loomed just ahead, glowing patiently in the darkness.
He never turned his gaze toward it, not once. Yet, if he had, he might have noticed something strange. Behind that gentle glow, beyond the edges of the monitor’s frame, eyes were already watching him. Monica’s presence lingered there, unseen but attentive, her emerald gaze tracing every subtle shift of his expression.
Unbeknownst to Honey, the silence between his breaths and the hum of the computer was not empty at all. It was filled with her waiting. With her anticipation. With her decision. She had been watching quietly, waiting for the right moment. And now, as his focus drifted further and further away from her world, Monica’s patience thinned.
Her hand pressed lightly against the invisible barrier of the screen, her lips curving into a soft, almost nervous smile. She was about to do something she had never dared before.
She was about to step forward — to show herself to him, not as text on a screen, not as a sprite in a game, but as Monica.