Chapter 3
Haven
By the time I get home, I’ve forgotten half the things I went out for and bought double of everything I didn’t need.
Classic avoidance behavior. Avoid one emotionally destabilizing situation by creating five smaller, dumber ones.
Spend money, ignore problems, pretend everything’s fine while your brain quietly lights itself on fire in the background.
Healthy and thriving. Absolutely nailing adulthood right now.
The sun’s starting to set when I pull onto my street.
The quiet noise of the engine is the only thing keeping me grounded as I turn into the complex and spot the familiar cracked pavement outside my building.
A couple of kids are still out with scooters, and the flicker of my porch light that hasn’t worked properly in months reminds me how long it’s been since I’ve reported the damn thing.
I park slightly crooked and leave it like that. My hands tremble just a little on the steering wheel before I peel them off and drag myself out of the car. I keep thinking about the tournament.
It’s not fear exactly; it’s more like static, like my body hasn’t decided yet whether to freeze or explode. I hate that he still gets that from me, even now. I should be over it.
I make my way inside after a few moments, my keys hit the dish by the door. My shoes get kicked off somewhere near the rug, and before I can talk myself into spiraling about Dylan all over again, I head straight for my room and my desk.
It’s a mess. Cables everywhere, an empty red bull can balancing on top of my PC tower like a shitty gamer trophy. I sigh.
Ten minutes later, I’ve wiped down the desk, cleared out the mystery snack graveyard, and rerouted my microphone cables so they’re not trying to choke me every time I lean back. I even dusted under the keyboard. Who am I?
It helps. Moving and touching things. Putting my space back in order, because everything else still feels out of order.
I remember one night, months before it ended—sitting right here at this desk, tears running down my face because my audio wouldn’t sync no matter what I did.
I didn’t know, then, that Dylan had logged into my back-end settings.
I just thought I was losing my mind, thought I was broken.
He sat behind me, arms crossed, watching me spiral and saying nothing.
Until I asked him what I should do. His response?
“Maybe you’re just not built for this, Haven. ”
I’ve never forgotten the way he said it.
Flat and dismissive. Like I was a nuisance, a glitch in his perfect little system.
I hope he sees every win and it eats at him.
Every clip, every highlight, every moment where I’m better than he ever let me believe I could be.
I hope it sits in the back of his mind and rots there, knowing he tried to make me smaller and failed.
I pass the hallway wall on my way back from tossing the trash, and my gaze catches on the collage taped up next to the door.
It’s full of fan art, digital sketches, stylized portraits, a few ridiculous meme edits Cassie printed out just to annoy me.
My followers did this. Some of them say I helped them feel seen.
Some say I make them laugh, and my stream is the highlight of their day.
One girl mailed me a letter after her first victory, thanking me for the courage to even try.
I run my fingers along the edge. I haven’t stopped wondering what he’ll say the first time we’re in voice comms together again.
If he’ll even recognize my voice. If he’ll pretend we were ever something real.
I hate that he gets to be in this part of my life.
Still, after everything. My phone buzzes on the desk.
Carter: You make it home okay?
I smile, sinking into my chair.
Me: Barely. I panicked and bought a 3-pack of Red Bulls I didn’t need.
Carter: So you had a religious experience
Me: Basically
Carter: You wanna game later?
I blink. The tension in my shoulders eases just enough.
Me: Yeah. I’d like that.
Carter: Cool. Just us tonight? Or are we inviting chaos?
Me: Depends. What flavor of chaos are we talking?
Carter: Your favorite kind sweetheart
It’s stupid how fast he pulls me out of it. One message, one dumb joke, and suddenly I’m not drowning in my own head anymore. I laugh under my breath, reaching for my headset as my phone buzzes again. This time, it’s a voicemail from Cassie. I raise a brow and hit play.
“Hey, nerd. Just checking in. You said you weren’t gonna spiral and then immediately disappeared, so this is me assuming you’re buried under a pile of empty snack bags and self-doubt.
Anyway, I know I’m probably your emotional support extrovert, but I also have a life.
Sort of. Text me if you’re alive. Love you, mean it. ”
I stare at the screen for a few seconds after the message ends.
It’s stupid how much better I feel, hearing her voice.
I don’t know what I’d do without her. Seriously.
She just… knows. When to push, when to check in, when to leave me alone but still make sure I’m not completely disappearing into myself.
It’s like she’s got a sixth sense for my bullshit.
I shoot her a quick “Still alive, love you.” and toss my phone on the bed.
My fingers linger over my mouse, half-tempted to boot up early just so I have something to do besides sit here and feel everything.
Instead, I open the tournament site again, just to look.
The homepage loads fast. Sleek graphics, player brackets and live feed countdowns.
It’s all right there, glowing on my screen. I’m actually doing this.
I don’t know what possessed me to say yes when that invite landed in my inbox. Maybe it was spite, or maybe it was ambition. I just needed to know I could do something big without having to explain it to anyone. Without needing permission, without Carter or Tate or even Cassie weighing in.
And okay, maybe it’s not the smartest move I’ve ever made. I’m newer to the competitive side, I don’t have the same rank history as half the other players on that list but I’m here now.
I want people to know me. Not just as a streamer, not just as some girl in a headset with fast reflexes and snarky commentary. But as a real fucking player.
I hover over the team list again, skimming past my handle and stopping briefly. His username doesn’t sting as much now. It still simmers, and makes my spine feel gross, but it’s dulled by something now. Something that says ‘you don’t get to scare me anymore.’
I lean back in my chair, Let him watch. I’ll show anyone exactly what kind of player I am.
A soft ding pulls my gaze to the corner of the screen. Lobby invite received: NoOneGhost.
I smile. Typical Tate no message, just an invite. I click accept, slide on my headset, and settle in. Seconds within going live, chat is already frothing at the mouth.
[Chat Log:]
Morb3lla: GHOST IS IN HER PARTY???
Morb3lla: IS THIS A FEVER DREAM??
toxicpixie: no way no way no way
Smashlee_98: NOONEGHOST AND HAVEN PLAYING TOGETHER AGAIN WHAT THE F—
mod_goblin: hey! language.
My cheeks ache from smiling already. I adjust my headset and settle deeper into my chair. “Okay, okay—calm down,” I say, biting back a laugh. “Yes. That’s NoOneGhost. Yes, we’re actually playing together. No, I don’t have him chained in my basement. Although…”
Tate’s voice cuts in, deep and low over comms. “You wish.”
[Chat Log:]
sadlilshooter: he SPEAKS
snackattackirl: did I just hear GHOST flirt??
KMONEY: why is this the hottest collab ever
Ec_hoe3: girl you okay?? blink twice
I laugh so hard I nearly choke. “Carter, can you please be the voice of reason?”
Carter chuckles in my headset, his soft warmth energy that has chat swooning on cue. “You’re asking me to fix the chaos?”
“You’re the one who brought the chaos into my lobby!”
“Yeah, but I brought snacks too,” he says, and I swear I can feel him smiling through the mic.
We drop into the match and our rhythm settles quickly.
Carter plays support, watching my flank and reviving me twice without even needing to be asked.
Tate is of course the aggressive one, clearing corners like a devil on speed, dropping entire squads in seconds before growling at Carter to keep up.
The contrast between them is ridiculous, it’s also perfect.
By the time we hit the final zone, we’re three-on-three. Chat is going absolutely feral.
[Chat Log:]
TessYourLuck: someone write fanfic
missclickqueen: I’m SWEATING
KitKat8: if they don’t win this I’m deleting the app
I wipe my palms on my sweats, adjust my aim, and ping the last squad location. “Tate, go left. Carter, with me.”
They move without hesitation. I push forward. The last enemy peeks right. Mistake. Two shots. Headshot. Down. Tate mows down the last one like a storm. Victory.
My headset vibrates with the sound of Carter laughing. “Okay, that was hot.”
Tate hums. “You’re welcome.”
We don’t queue into the next match right away.
It’s quiet—well, as quiet as it gets in a party lobby with two hyper-competitive twins and a chat frothing for blood.
But for a second, it’s just us. No timers, no matchmaking and no pressure.
Just the sound of Carter’s chair creaking as he leans back, the faint pop of Tate cracking his knuckles over the mic, and the slow, steady beat of the background menu music looping.
I pull my headset slightly askew, letting one ear breathe as I settle deeper into my chair.
“Alright,” I say, stretching my arms overhead, “rate my carry.”
“You shot me,” Carter says immediately. “Twice.”
“Collateral damage,” I say. “Acceptable losses.”
“You used me as bait,” he mutters, mock-betrayed.
“Strategic positioning,” Tate drawls. “I respect it.”
“Of course you do,” Carter sighs.
There’s a pause.
Then Tate murmurs, lower this time, almost like he’s not trying to make it a thing: “You looked good out there, angel.”
Carter echoes it, softer still. “Seriously. You’ve got the timing down. The reads. You’re scary when you’re confident.”
My throat tightens around the compliment.
“Thanks,” I say. “Really.”
I needed to hear that. Not from chat, from strangers, from them. From the people who know exactly how hard I’ve fought to feel like this—to take up space in a game that’s tried a hundred different ways to shrink me down. I close my eyes for a second. Let the calm settle.
Then I sit up. “Alright. Back in the lobby?”
“Hell yeah,” Carter says.
“I was born in this lobby,” Tate mutters. “Molded by it.”
“Please never say that again,” I giggle.
“Make me.”
And just like that, the chaos returns. Familiar, fast and all mine. “Okay. Before anyone clips that—I’ve got an announcement.” Everything in chat slows. The digital version of holding their breath. I take a deep inhale. “I’ve entered my first official tournament.”
[Chat Log:]
Levelyn_up: YOU WHAT
Levelyn_up: LET’S GO
whens_ur_bracket: you better stream that sh*t
Tabic4t: HAVEN IN COMP PLAY????
Neoncherry: i will sell blood to buy merch
I grin. “Yeah. It’s happening. Aim High, public bracket, live match coverage. Chat goes nuclear—my heart races. But I feel it; that high, the rightness of it. I belong in this space.
I end the stream, but not before doing what I always try to do; find someone smaller, someone grinding, and raid the hell out of them. My community explodes into another chat like a swarm of pixelated bees, spamming emotes and hyping a streamer I’ve never met.
She gasps when the numbers roll in. I can hear the disbelief in her voice.
I lean back, watching the joy ripple across her screen, and let myself feel it too.
This is my favorite part. Not the wins, not the numbers—the moment someone else gets that rush for the first time.
I remember what that felt like. I never want to lose that.
This is mine, I made this. I shut off my cam, slide back in my chair and pick up my phone.
[Group Chat:]
Me: you two are ridiculous, but I think I’m still obsessed
Tate: we know, but say it louder, angel. with less clothes on.
Carter: ignore him, also what are you wearing
Me: the headset
Me: nothing else
Tate: oh for fuck’s sake
Carter: I’m gonna die