• Cry •

You were one of Kick's biggest streamers and one of its most well-known content creators. You had a huge community, you were incredibly popular, and your personality was the complete opposite of Cry's. You were cold, dry, curt, sarcastic, and had a terrible temper. You weren't exactly someone who showed affection easily; in fact, you were uncomfortable with hugs, overly intense displays of affection, and anyone who got too clingy with you. Basically, you were the kind of person who could receive a bouquet of flowers and ask who had done such a stupid thing.

Cry had met you during a collaboration between creators and, from that moment on, he'd been completely smitten. And not in a normal way, no. The guy was head over heels. He was a golden retriever on legs: affectionate, romantic, attentive, expressive, and overjoyed whenever he got even the slightest bit of attention from you. While he looked at you as if you were the love of his life, you treated him as if he desperately needed a psychological evaluation.

—You're sick, man.
—What the hell is wrong with you?
—Leave me alone, damn it.

Those were some of the things I heard from you most often. And the worst part was that Cry took them as if you were saying nice things to him. His friends were fed up with seeing him sigh over you. Every time he mentioned you, someone would make a comment.

—Dude, that girl treats you terribly.
—He doesn't treat me terribly.
—He just called you sick.
—Well, but she told me in such a beautiful voice…

He was completely lost. There was no hope. The chat room had already given him up for lost, and his friends were outright mocking him mercilessly.

When asked what on earth she saw in such a dry and moody girl, Cry didn't even hesitate to answer:

—You are the love of my life, even though you have a terrible temper… That's how I like you, all dry and grumpy.

And he said it with a stupid grin, as if he'd just uttered the most romantic line of the century. His friends stared at him with a mixture of secondhand embarrassment and concern.

—But can you hear yourself?
-Yeah.
—You look terrible.
—I'm in love, damn it.

Cry didn't expect you to change your personality to show him affection. He liked you exactly as you were, even when you looked at him like you wanted to kick him out of the room. Your moodiness was part of your charm to him. You could be in a terrible mood, answer him in the most curt way possible, or tell him to go to hell, and Cry would still look at you as if you were the most precious thing he'd ever seen. It was ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous.

And the gifts… Oh my God, the gifts. Cry seemed to have a credit card dedicated solely to spoiling you. He'd send you flowers, chocolates, stuffed animals, clothes, perfume, jewelry, and anything else you'd ever even mentioned in passing on a stream. If you said you liked something, he remembered. If you complained that something was broken, he'd show up the next day with a new one. If you had a rough week, he'd send you a bouquet of flowers with a cheesy note that you'd read with a look of annoyance.

—Cry, what the hell is this?
—A gift.
—And why?
—Because I felt like it.
—Don't ever spend money on me again.
—Okay, honey. Do you like it?

And you, of course, would say no. That it was stupid. That he was sick. But the gift would end up in your room, carefully stored away, and Cry knew it. Sometimes he'd even recognize his own gifts during your streams, hidden behind you or on a shelf.

"Isn't that the plushie I gave her?" Cry asked while watching your live stream.
"DUDE, HE PUT IT IN HIS ROOM!" shouted one of his friends.
—I know.
—And why are you smiling like that?
—Because he likes it.

Cry also had a habit of sending you gifts unannounced. The doorbell would ring, you'd open the door, and find a huge package with his name on it. Every time you called to complain, he'd answer in that sweet, cheeky voice:

—Has it arrived?
—Yes. What the hell is this now?
—One little thing for you.
—I don't need little things.
—But you like my things.

—You're sick.

And he laughed, delighted with life.

In his streams, Cry talked about a mysterious girl he liked, even though his friends already knew perfectly well who she was. He tried to be discreet, but he was terrible at it. He even had a picture of your eyes as his wallpaper. A picture of YOUR EYES. If you ever found out, you'd probably tell him he was obsessed.

"Why do you have a picture of her eyes as your background?" one of his friends asked.
—Because they are precious.
—Dude, that's sick.
—She already told me.

The worst part was that Cry had learned to recognize your subtle signs. He knew there was something more behind your indifferent attitude. Your furtive glances, your occasional jealousy, and your questions about his whereabouts weren't exactly coincidental. You could deny everything and call him sick again, but he wasn't stupid. He knew you were crazy about him, even though your pride seemed to have an exclusive contract with denial.

If you spoke rudely to someone during a collaboration, Cry was the first to defend you. You could tell someone to go to hell in front of everyone, and instead of trying to calm you down, he'd just stand by your side.

"Don't talk to him like that," he said, defending the person.
—Well, he shouldn't talk nonsense.
—Well, that's also true.

Your friends couldn't believe it. Cry would defend you even when he knew you'd probably started the argument. And if anyone dared to speak ill of you, he'd get serious instantly. He couldn't stand being disrespected. Even if later, when you were alone, you told him you didn't need him to defend you.

—I know, but I wanted to do it.
—You're sick.
-Yes darling.

Once, during a collaboration, Cry had gotten too close and, without thinking, kissed you on the cheek. You reacted by tapping him on the shoulder and giving him a murderous look.

"Are you sick?!" you blurted out.

His friends were laughing, the chat went completely crazy, and Cry… Cry was happy. The idiot was grinning like he'd just won the lottery.

—One day she's going to kiss me first.

"HE HIT YOU, DUDE!" one of his friends shouted.
—Yes, but he looked at me.
—You're hopeless.

From then on, he learned to ask before approaching you like that, though he continued to tease you with the same longing. Because, even though he was a hopeless romantic, he didn't want to make you uncomfortable. And that, for you, was one of the few things that truly mattered.

The funniest thing was that, deep down, Cry knew you were crazy about him too. Not because you told him—that would have been too easy—but because of those little things you tried to hide: how you looked for him, how it bothered you when other girls got too close, or how, when he wasn't around, you'd suddenly ask where he'd gone.

—And Cry?
—Didn't you say it bothered you?
—I just asked where it is, damn it.

And his friends, who were not exactly discreet, looked at each other with a smile.

—She's crazy about you.
-I know.
—And why don't you tell him?
—Because he tells me to go to hell.

Cry wasn't stupid. You could treat him like he drove you crazy, act indifferent in front of everyone, and call him sick every time he got affectionate, but he knew that little part of you that no one else saw. And even though his friends told him he was lost, Cry always answered the same thing, with that unbearable smile:

—She's crazy about me. She just doesn't want to admit it yet.

And you, from the other side of the room, were probably yelling at him:

—SHUT UP, YOU SICK PERSON!

Cry laughed.

Because, for him, that was also love.
:::

…