Fangirl

Chapter 3

AMY

“Shut up! You really met a guy online?”

Maya’s eyes sparkle with mischief as she grabs my phone, scrolling through my messages with Eli. She chews thoughtfully on her sandwich, pausing now and then to glance up at me with a knowing look.

“Is he the reason you ignored most of my messages?”

She raises an eyebrow, but before I can defend myself, she waves a hand dismissively.

“Frankly, I’m not even mad. I told you to join online dating ages ago. That’s how I met Matt, and look at us now.”

She wiggles her left hand, flashing her brand-new wedding band.

I blush, glancing around the busy canteen, hoping the hum of lunch chatter drowns her out.

I don’t need an audience for this conversation.

With Maya though? It’s different.

We grew up together, went to school in London, and when I got sick, when we finally discovered I had an autoimmune disease, she’s the reason I didn’t retreat into my cocoon at home.

She kept me grounded. Kept me fighting.

Now, thanks to my referral, she works as a solicitor in our legal department.

My best friend in the same building? A dream.

“I didn’t ignore you,” I mumble, stabbing at my asparagus risotto. “You were on your honeymoon, Maya. And this is nothing. We’re just friends. I didn’t join any dating websites.”

She shrugs, setting my phone down.

“A pity. Online dating is the solution.”

She takes another bite, eyes flicking back to my phone.

I shift in my seat, suddenly self-conscious.

How much had I actually talked to Eli this past week?

Maya snorts, shaking her head.

“God, you two are a geeky match made in heaven.”

I hesitate.

That much?

She finally looks up, pushes my phone back toward me, and, without a word, goes back to eating.

I stare at her. “So?” I demand.

She keeps chewing, torturing me on purpose.

“So?” I press again.

She finally swallows, sets her sandwich down, and tilts her head like she’s solving a case.

“I think you should hop on the first plane to LA and jump his geeky bones.”

I choke on my water. “Maya!”

She smirks. “That man is everything you, my beautiful weirdo, dream of.”

I groan, rubbing my temples. “Be serious.”

“I am!” She jabs a sharp red nail toward my screen. “That man listened to you rant about stupid Anlon for much longer than any sane person would have. I swear, I regret the day I took you to that writing class to meet that author.”

I scoff, but my heart warms at the memory.

Maya had always been supportive of my writing dream. During my first year of uni, she bought me a masterclass hosted by the then-unknown Melinda James, author of books one and two of The Chronicles of Persefia.

Eleven years and ten books later, I’m just as obsessed as I was on day one.

I shrug, stirring my risotto.

“You know you don’t really. The Chronicles of Persefia make me happy.”

“Do you know what else would make you happy?”

She leans in, her brown eyes sparkling.

I sigh.

“Let me guess—something to do with Eli’s appendage.”

“If by appendage you mean penis, then yes.”

I roll my eyes. “What else could I mean?”

She grins. “Come on, Amy. Say the word… penis.”

I glare, my lips pursed in defiance.

Maya mouths it anyway.

Penis.

I refuse to engage.

She leans back, sighing dramatically. “Fine. If you won’t say penis, at least consider this—why don’t you offer him a video call?”

I tilt my head, pretending to weigh the idea. Of course I’ve considered it. I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t thought about what Eli’s voice actually sounds like.

What he looks like when he smirks at the screen, teasing me.

“But he lives in LA.”

Maya blinks, then deadpans. “Okay? And that’s important because…?”

I open my mouth and then close it again. How do I even explain this to her?

Despite our unshakable friendship, Maya and I couldn’t be more different.

She’s beautiful, tall, thin. A true extrovert who thrives on socializing.

I’m short, a little too curvy. The mousy friend who prefers staying home with a book and a hot chocolate.

The unreliable friend.

The one who, no matter what, can have a flare-up and be stuck at home.

The one who carries the weight of pain—a constant, invisible burden that, even if it doesn’t stop me from living, makes me take life more cautiously.

I look back at her and smile, shaking my head.

We truly couldn’t be more different.

And yet we work.

We balance each other.

But the issue here? Maya loves me.

She sees me through the rosy glasses of friendship. She doesn’t see me the way I see myself or the way others might.

What I love most about talking to Eli is the anonymity. With him, I’m not the awkward, too-quiet, invisible girl; I’m a fantasy, free of insecurities, pain, or doubts.

I exhale. “He hasn’t offered,” I say instead.

She raises an eyebrow, undeterred. “No, because he seems like a genuinely nice guy. He’s probably waiting for you to offer.” She studies me for a moment, then softens. “He won’t be disappointed, Amy. If only you could see yourself the way I see you.”

My eyes burn at the unexpected tenderness in her words.

I clear my throat, shaking off the sudden wave of emotion.

“Penis.”

Maya blinks. Once. Twice.

Then she bursts into laughter, head thrown back, the sound bright and full of life.

“Fine. I stand corrected. You’re practically a vixen now.”

I grin, but more than anything, I’m relieved to have successfully changed the subject.

Chronic illness truly sucks. But lately, chatting with Eli, I almost forget I’m the girl who cancels plans and tiptoes around my body’s whims.

With him, I’m Fangirl. The witty one. The bold one. The one who teases and gets teased right back.

But my body has other ideas. And today? It’s staging a full-on rebellion.

No amount of “penis” could unknot the anxiety in my stomach last night, and now I’m paying the price.

I know it the second I open my eyes. The ache behind them is already blooming—low and relentless.

I know it in the way my fingers throb at every joint, just trying to shut off my alarm.

I know it when my back screams in protest as I sit up in bed, my limbs stiff and heavy.

I feel twenty-nine going on ninety.

The thing about fibromyalgia and Sjogren’s is that they’re sneaky bastards.

You think you’re fine. You push a little. Stay up too late, stress over a decision, maybe flirt with the idea of being brave.

Then bam, they slam the brakes.

Today, I was supposed to suggest a video call. I was supposed to write a few chapters of my fanfic.

Instead, I’m wrapped in my fluffiest socks, hoodie zipped to my chin, staring blankly at the TV and throwing a full-blown pity party.

I need the pain to ease. I’ve got too much to do, including a dreaded trip to a bridal shop an hour away tomorrow to try on a bridesmaid dress I already hate.

So after too much hesitation, I slip on my compression gloves and pop a gabapentin, despite knowing it’ll leave my brain foggier than a Regency-era moor, sulking over the lousy deck of cards I’ve been dealt.

My phone buzzes. A message from Eli.

Eli: Where are my chapters, Fangirl? You left me on one hell of a cliffhanger.

I sigh. Of course he’d remember. He always does.

He’s one of only two people who knows my secret.

That I’m Anlon4ever, the AO3 legend behind The Chronicles of Persefia fanfics that half the fandom has bookmarked, and the other half pretends not to love.

Maya is the other. And when I told her, it officially tipped the scales from “unhealthy interest” to “unrecoverable obsession.” Her geek meter practically short-circuited.

My brain feels slower than usual, thick with fog, because instead of ignoring Eli’s message like I should do when I feel this way… I want his comfort. I want him.

But typing hurts. Everything hurts.

So in a moment of false bravery, I do something I’ve never done before. I send him a voice note.

“Tell me, Elijah-from-LA… do you ever feel inadequate? Because I do.”

I freeze. I can’t believe I just said that. Asked that.

The truth tumbles out in my tired voice, barely above a whisper.

A truth I rarely admit and almost never out loud.

But today, my resolve is frayed. And maybe it’s easier this way, talking to someone who doesn’t really know me. Someone who lives behind a screen, thousands of miles away.

Someone who can’t see the mess I am and won’t look away when he hears it anyway.

The voice note sits there, timestamped and glowing like it’s mocking me.

Why did I say that? Why now?

I close my eyes and rest my head against the sofa cushions, trying not to spiral.

Thirty seconds pass.

Then a minute.

Then, ping.

My phone lights up with a new voice message. My chest tightens as I press play.

“Fangirl…”

His voice is low. Gentle. A little rough around the edges, like he just woke up or hasn't slept yet. Hearing my nickname in his voice makes my stomach flip.

“I don’t know what to say, except… yeah. I feel it too. All the time.”

My breath catches.

“But you? You have nothing to feel inadequate about. You’re brilliant. And brave. And funny as hell.” A pause. Then, softer, “And for what it’s worth… I really like your voice, it’s low and sultry, and your accent? Sexy as hell.”

Warmth rushes through me unexpectedly. It spills down my spine and settles low in my chest, right where the pain usually lives.

I press the phone to my heart like an idiot. He likes my voice.

His voice… God, I could listen to it on a loop. It’s deep and calm, edged with a wry kind of humor that feels like balm over raw nerves.

He’s a stranger. A friend. And somehow, today, a lifeline.

Ping.

Another voice note pops up.

“Tell me, who do I need to slay? Who do I need to punish for making you feel that way?”

I blink. A laugh bubbles up soft and unexpected.

My body, I think.

This traitorous, aching, utterly unreliable thing I’m stuck in.

But I don’t say that.

Not yet.

Instead, I hug the phone tighter and let myself feel it—the warmth in his voice, the sincerity in his question, and the way he doesn’t even hesitate to go full protective-mode over something I barely admitted.

I should tell him, but I don’t.

Because I like the version of Amy I get to be with him. Not the fragile one. Not the one people tiptoe around. Not the one with circles under her eyes and compression gloves on her hands.

I don’t want to hear that edge in his voice, the one laced with caution. I don’t want to see it in his eyes if we ever meet in person. That quiet worry, the hesitation.

The way people who love me look when I’ve done a little too much. When my smile doesn’t quite reach. They don’t mean to. I know they love me, but they always see the pain, even when I’m trying to show them the joy.

And I don’t want that with him, not yet, and maybe not ever.

“It’s nothing. I’m just tired and a little cranky. Probably the weather. Autumn’s almost here.”

“Is it? I don’t know why, but I pegged you as a fall lover. Was I wrong?”

I can’t help but smile. No, of course he’s not wrong. That man can read me through my words on a screen.

“I am an autumn girl. But the rain’s no good for my old bones. You’ll get it when you’re my age,” I add, teasing, trying to keep things light before he pries a little too deep, and I cave.

“Alright, Fangirl. You’re three years older, not fifteen.”

“Yes, but in man-years? That’s at least a decade’s head start,” I shoot back.

A voice note pings.

Just a laugh. It’s deep, unfiltered, and warm.

And that laugh does things to my heart and stomach it has absolutely no business doing.

For a second, I feel like a teenager again, giggling in braces when Thomas Gerdin from seventh grade winked at me.

Or at least that’s what I thought, until I found out he was coming down with a raging case of pink eye.

“Ah, well, you’re lucky I’m into older women.”

And there it is, my heart doing the flamenco again. Maybe it’s the meds?

No, Amy Sinclair. You know it’s not the tablets. It’s the smooth-talking man on the other end of the line.

“What’s up though, Fangirl? You can talk to me.”

I open my mouth… then close it again. I don’t know what to say. I don’t want to lie, but I’m not sure I’m ready to tell him the truth either.

“Ah, don’t worry too much. Just a pity party for one. Work sucked yesterday. Audits, you know. And I guess… I just wonder sometimes if this is it. If this is all there is.”

“No. There’s more. There has to be.”

The way he says it. I don’t need to know his voice that well to hear what’s behind it.

Longing. The kind I recognize because I carry it too.

The silence stretches, but it’s not uncomfortable. It’s the kind of quiet that wraps around you like a blanket, not a wall.

He doesn’t try to fix anything, doesn’t launch into a pep talk or offer shallow reassurances.

“You ever think,” I murmur, “that maybe we’re all just one wrong decision away from an entirely different life?”

“All the time.”

A pause. Then, “But maybe some wrong decisions lead to the right people.”

God. He really knows how to sneak up on me with words like that.

I don’t reply, not right away.

Then my phone buzzes again, one last voice note.

“I’ve gotta go, Fangirl. Work calls. But I’ll talk to you later, yeah? I was really happy to hear your voice. Now I can hear you when I read your messages.”

I smile, pressing the phone to my chest again like a lovesick idiot. He makes it sound so simple, like hearing my voice meant something.

I shift on the couch and tug the blanket up to my chin.

The pain in my back has dulled a little. My fingers still ache, but not as sharply.

Part of it’s the meds. I know that.

But not all of it. Some of it is him.

This faceless man who’s quickly becoming a confidant.

I close my eyes, and for the first time today… it hurts a little less.