The glow of Eliot's laptop screen was the only light in the room. Outside the dormitory window, the campus of Redfield University lay in silence, soaked in the blue tint of 2 a.m. Eliot sat cross-legged on his unmade bed, headphones in, a half-empty energy drink sweating beside his keyboard.
He should have been sleeping. He had class in seven hours. But the familiar silence of the night offered a kind of clarity he never found during the day. There were no awkward hallway nods, no group projects, no pretending to care about weekend plans he never intended to join. Here, he was himself. Quiet. Unseen. Entirely at peace.
He clicked into an obscure web forum he had found only a week ago—an anonymous chatroom built for "late-night thinkers and digital ghosts," as the tagline boasted. The interface was minimal, almost outdated: black background, green pixelated text. Yet the anonymity was comforting.
That night, as he scrolled through threads about simulation theory and recursive dreams, a message blinked into the chat:
Luna: "You sound like someone who doesn't believe the world is real."
He blinked. The message wasn't directed at him specifically, but it echoed something he had just typed.
Eliot: "Sometimes I don't. Depends what you mean by 'real.'"
A response came almost instantly.
Luna: "Exactly. Like, maybe it's all rendered just for you. Just when you look."
They spiraled from there. Theories, philosophy, obscure 80s sci-fi, favorite movies, and even their mutual dislike of small talk. Her humor was dry, her insights razor-sharp. She typed fast, but never shallow. He wasn't sure how long they talked, only that by the time his eyes burned with fatigue, the sun had started bleeding into the sky.
She logged off with a simple:
Luna: "Goodnight, stranger. Sleep well."
Eliot stared at the blinking cursor. Then typed:
Eliot: "Same to you, Luna."
The next night, he came back early. Showered, reheated some leftover pizza, and even skipped his roommate's invitation to a party. He opened the laptop at 10:00 p.m., hoping. Ten minutes passed. Nothing. Then:
Luna: "Back again, ghost boy?"
He grinned. Something in his chest, dormant for so long, stirred.
They talked again, and again the next night. He began to think about her during the day, wondered what her voice sounded like, whether she also stared into the glow of a screen with the same soft ache behind her ribs. He typed faster when she messaged. When she joked, he laughed—really laughed. He hadn't realized how long it had been since he'd done that.
On the third night, after saying goodnight, Eliot didn't fall asleep so much as he drifted. The moment he closed his eyes, he was standing in a field of violet dusk, stars blooming slowly overhead. A small cabin stood at the edge of the trees, warm yellow light leaking from the windows.
She was there.
Not on a screen. Not in pixels or words.
Luna.
She wore a pale blue dress that fluttered slightly as if caught in a breeze. Her dark hair fell around her shoulders in soft waves, and her eyes—her eyes were the color of moonlight over water. Familiar, impossibly so. She smiled when she saw him. Not a digital emoticon, not an emoji. A real, soft smile that felt like it belonged somewhere ancient inside him.
"I missed you," she whispered.
They held hands. They walked beneath the indigo sky. She said she loved the smell of rain, that she hated crowded cities, that her favorite kind of music was anything that sounded like the end of the world. Everything she said felt already known to him. As though they weren't meeting but remembering.
When he awoke, he lay in bed, heart pounding, chest tight with something between awe and confusion. It had felt so real. Her skin. Her voice. The way she looked at him, like she'd known him forever.
He spent the whole morning pacing, then decided to send her a message the moment she came online.
Eliot: "Weird question. Can I see what you look like? Just...curious."
There was a pause. Then:
Luna: "Are you sure? Sometimes seeing ruins the magic."
Eliot: "Please. I need to know."
She sent a file.
His breath caught.
It was her.
The girl from his dream. The same eyes. Same hair. Same smile.
He dropped the laptop. It hit the carpet with a soft thump. He backed away slowly, as though the machine had grown teeth.
What the hell was happening?
Outside, the sun was bright and warm. Birds chirped. The campus lawn filled with students and laughter.
But Eliot only felt cold.