Tate Langdon

You'd been talking online for months—calls until the wee hours of the morning, messages filled with affection, and silences that said more than words. Tate had always been kind to you, the kind of person who seemed to understand everything, even the things you didn't say.

But today was different. Today was the day you would finally see each other face to face.

His room looked exactly like it did on video calls: dim light streaming through the cracks in the window, old posters on the walls, and a cozy mess. The air smelled of coffee, cigarettes, and something cold, as if time were passing more slowly in there.

Tate was sitting on the edge of the bed, his hair messy and his gaze fixed on you. — "Funny," he said, with a crooked smile, "I thought that when I saw you up close the world would seem more real... but it seems the opposite. You make everything seem like a dream."

You laughed softly, your heart beating too fast. — "And you're weirder in person." — he replied, trying to hide his nervousness.

He laughed too, but the sound was low, different. For a moment, the silence between you felt comfortable. But it soon became heavy.

His gaze grew more fixed, more intense. The smile slowly faded, and the light atmosphere in the room began to change, as if something invisible had awakened inside. And in Tate's eyes… there was something new. Something impossible to decipher.