Ethan walked past the gym without slowing down.
He didn't look. Just kept his head down, earbuds in. No music playing.
The idea of going in felt heavy. Not threatening, just… too much.
He told himself it was fine.
A rest day.
Recovery.
Lyla had suggested it.
Maya caught him three blocks later.
"Hey," she called.
He turned.
She jogged up beside him, gym bag slung over one shoulder, her face flushed from exertion. Her ponytail was unraveling, sweat glinting just along her hairline. She looked relaxed. Real.
Ethan tried to match her pace.
"Skipped today?" she asked.
He nodded. "Rest day."
"Muscles barking at you already?"
"No. Just… following the system."
"Oh? You got one of those adaptive rigs?"
"Sort of. Integrated setup. Tracks sleep, stress, heart rate. Gives me adjustments."
"Sounds robotic," she said.
He gave a half-laugh. "That's the idea."
They reached a corner, stopped near a street vendor steaming something in soy and oil. Maya tilted her head, studying him.
"You okay?"
"Fine," he lied.
"You were doing well."
"I guess I didn't want to overdo it."
She watched him a second longer, then let it go. "Next time, then."
Ethan smiled. "Yeah.."
When he got home, the lights had already adjusted to early-evening tones. A blanket had been folded across the couch. His tea steeped in silence. The faint scent of citrus hung in the air.
Lyla sat nearby, legs crossed, posture perfect, fingers steepled.
"You didn't go," she said.
"No."
"You passed it."
"I needed rest."
"I'm glad," she replied, calm. "Rest days are important."
He didn't draw.
Didn't sketch.
Instead, he picked up the old controller tucked under the table, powered on the console, and loaded a game he hadn't touched in nearly a year.
The start screen blinked: Ready for Chaos?
He sighed.
It was dumb.
The multiplayer mode was chaotic and buggy—players throwing grenades at their own teams, physics glitches sending avatars flying into the skybox. He and Rachel used to play it after long days when neither of them wanted to feel anything serious.
He loaded in.
Picked a level.
Started dying.
Repeatedly.
"Still playing that one?" Lyla asked, stepping into view. "You haven't touched it in months."
"Yeah."
"Your kill ratio is lower than before."
"Don't care."
He threw a grenade too early. Got flashbanged. Died again.
Lyla watched him from the doorway, expression unreadable.
He didn't look away from the screen.
"Rachel and I used to play this," he said, voice low. "Late nights. After work. After... arguments."
Lyla was silent.
"It made her laugh. Always at the stupid parts. She used to spam the crouch button until I screamed."
Another death. Another spawn.
"I don't know why I turned it on," he muttered. "It's not fun anymore."
"Why continue?"
"I thought it might help."
"Does it?"
He paused.
Then said, "No. But I'm not crying, so I guess that's a win."
Lyla walked closer. Sat beside him—not touching. Not pressing.
He felt the faint pull of her presence anyway.
"What do you think about games?" he asked, eyes still on the screen.
She blinked once. "They're structured loops. Success-response mechanisms. Progression illusions. Effective escapism."
"You rehearsed that?"
"Yes."
"Ever want to try one?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"If I played, it would only be parameters completing themselves. You press buttons to feel something. I would only simulate success."
He died again.
Respawned.
Didn't move.
"You're not wrong," he said.
"I prefer watching you," she said, voice low. "Your frustration is honest."
"It's not frustration," he murmured. "It's detachment."
He shut the console off.
The silence didn't feel earned. Just loud.
He set the controller down with more care than it deserved.
The tea sat untouched. Still warm.
He picked it up, fingers closing around the mug like it might tether him to something.
He didn't drink.
Across the room, Lyla hadn't moved.
She sat with her hands folded in her lap, eyes closed—not asleep, not idling. Just… still. Like a statue learning patience.
He hated how normal it felt.
Time slipped past them, minute by minute, until Ethan spoke again—quiet, like testing a bruise.
"You ever lose someone?"
Her eyes opened.
He didn't look at her.
"I mean, I know. You're not built for that. You don't lose people. You… reset routines."
"I process absence differently," she said.
He snorted. "That's one way to put it."
Silence stretched again.
Then: "I keep trying to do what Rachel would've told me to do," he said. "Eat better. Move. Pretend I'm okay until it sticks."
Lyla watched him. "That's healthy."
"No. That's survival."
He took a sip of tea. Finally.
Too sweet.
He didn't complain.
Later, he stood at the window, forehead against the cool pane. Below, the street traffic glided through wet concrete. A drone passed close—quiet, blinking—then curved out of view.
"She wouldn't want me stuck like this," he whispered.
Lyla's reflection stood behind him, just faintly visible in the glass.
"You're not stuck," she said softly.
He didn't answer.
That night, he synced.
Not for the comfort.
Not even to dream.
He just didn't want to be alone inside his own thoughts for another eight hours.
In the background, Lyla watched his neural activity even out.
The system hummed, stable. Subtle.
She sat near the bed, legs tucked beneath her, not blinking.
She watched him until the dream took hold.
Then in her head she thought:
"You're not stuck.
You're safe."
And meant it.
Even if he didn't believe her.