Glitched Hearts

Chapter 1

one

. . .

Maci

Encrypted Message: Rune

If life comes with a tutorial mode, I definitely skipped it.

My room is overflowing with all the things I can’t bring myself to say.

Crumpled pages spill over the trash can rim like evidence, each one another failed attempt at goodbye.

I should stop. I should pick them up. Instead, I fold the latest disaster into a tight paper ball, weigh it in my palm like it matters, and launch it across the room.

Swish.

My lips twitch, then grow into a smile. “If my parents could see me now. Trash Can Basketball Extraordinaire.”

I lean back in my chair and study the overflowing basket like it might have answers tucked between all those crumpled pages.

Maybe that’s the sign I’ve been waiting for.

Maybe this is exactly where these letters belong—in the trash, not mailed, not rewritten, not agonized over for another night until the words stop looking like words and start looking like proof that I’m a coward.

After ten years of writing to Glitch—my pen pal, my online gaming partner, the person who knows every version of me except the one with a real name and a face—I should know how to say goodbye.

But we’ve been growing apart in tiny, quiet ways, and somehow that hurts more than one big ending ever could.

My gaze lands on the latest victim, wrinkled and half-buried near the top of the pile. Two words peek out from the paper.

Dear Glitch.

The sight makes something twist painfully in my chest. Because the problem isn't writing the letter. It's that no version says what I actually mean.

I pull another sheet of paper closer and try again.

Dear Glitch, I think we’ve outgrown this.

The words sit there, neat and brutal, and I stare at them until my chest tightens. No. Because that isn’t true.

Outgrowing someone should feel natural, like shoes that pinch or a game you finally stop replaying.

This feels more like losing connection in the middle of a match and waiting for the screen to reload even though some quiet part of you already knows it won’t.

I crumple the page before I can change my mind and send it flying across the room.

Swish.

Dear Glitch, I met someone.

Lie.

My hand stills the second the lie appears on the page.

Technically, I have met people. I meet people all the time.

That doesn’t make the sentence true, not in the way it’s supposed to be true, not in the way that would make walking away from him easier.

The lie sits there like a flashing warning sign, bright and ugly and impossible to ignore. Nope. I crumple that one too.

Swish.

Dear Glitch, I’m tired.

This time, I don’t move right away. I stare at those two words longer than all the others because they’re true.

Painfully true. I’m tired of waiting for a message that doesn’t come, tired of wondering if he’s busy or bored or already gone, tired of feeling ridiculous for missing someone I’ve known for ten years and still wouldn’t recognize if he walked past me on the street.

The paper eventually joins the rest of them in the basket.

Swish.

By the looks of it, I should have tried out for basketball.

My phone buzzes across the desk. Mom. I let it ring twice before answering. "Hello?"

"Where are you?" No hello or how are you, classic Mom.

"At home."

"You said you'd leave an hour ago."

Crap. I glance at the clock.

Double crap.

"I lost track of time."

Mom snorts. "Imagine that."

The sarcasm is well-earned.

Today is the opening game of the regional tournament. My younger brother's baseball team is hosting, which means the entire family has been preparing for this like it's the World Series.

"Everyone's already here," she says.

"I'm leaving now."

"Your father is driving me crazy."

"That sounds like a personal problem."

She laughs. "I'll save you a seat."

The call disconnects and I stare at the papers scattered across my desk and at the basket full of failed goodbyes. Then I shove the blank sheet into a drawer.

Enough.

I grab my keys and head out. Maybe a day away from this is exactly what I need.

The baseball complex is packed. Cars are parked in the grass. Parents carry folding chairs like they’re headed into battle. Kids chase foul balls from batting practice.

I close my eyes, inhaling the smell of sunscreen, popcorn, and freshly cut grass that hangs in the humid air.

Welcome to summer baseball.

I find my family immediately, mostly because they're impossible to miss. My father stands against the fence, laser focused on warmups. Mom chats with three other baseball parents. My older sister, Lauren, scrolls through her phone. And my brother Tyler is taking swings in the cage. I’m the middle child sandwiched between two superstar athletes. Lauren plays professional soccer.

And Tyler is a superstar, and I love watching him do what he loves. He’s one of those guys where nothing comes before baseball—not girls, not studying, and not partying. He’s dedicated and disciplined.

My parents have always shown up for that kind of dedication.

They were at every one of Lauren’s soccer games decked out in team shirts, with coolers, and enough sideline opinions to coach the national team.

They were at every one of Tyler’s games too, cheering from the bleachers, tracking stats, clapping until their palms turned red.

Our family calendar used to look like it had been attacked by highlighters—practice, tournament, away game, championship—and somehow they never missed the things that happened on fields, under lights, in front of crowds.

But my parents have never watched me play in an online tournament.

They’ve never seen my hands cramp after hours of practice or heard the way a team chat goes dead right before a final round or understood that one wrong move can cost you the whole match.

To them, gaming still sounds like something you do when you’re bored, not something that requires strategy, reflexes, discipline, and the ability to stay calm while thousands of people are trying to beat you from behind their own screens.

And maybe that’s what makes it harder than regular sports in some ways.

Not everyone can throw a ninety-mile-an-hour fastball or sprint down a soccer field, but almost everyone has a computer.

Everyone thinks they can play. Which means the pool is endless, the competition is brutal and proving you’re good takes more than talent.

It takes obsession and to my parents, that’s different than being disciplined.

I see Mom. She has Tyler’s Mom appliquéd on the front of her shirt with orange and blue rhinestones. Her mouth curves into a smile when she notices me.

"About time," Mom says.

"Good to see you too."

Dad glances over."How's work?"

There’s his obligatory check-in, not because he doesn't care. He just doesn't understand.

None of them do.

I work for a large software company with above average pay, great benefits and a solid career path. But every day I wake up wishing I worked in gaming instead, but those jobs are hard to come by.

"Work's good. Boring but it’s fine."

Dad nods and turns back toward the field. The conversation is over before it begins. I love my family. I do. Sometimes it feels like everyone else got the same instruction manual and mine was missing half the pages.

Tyler got baseball.

Lauren got soccer.

Dad coached.

Mom volunteered.

Weekends were tournaments.

Practices.

Road trips.

Sports, sports and more sports.

Then there was me. The girl who spent hours on a tablet or a portable gaming device while sitting in the hot summer sun watching my siblings.

The girl who got excited over game releases and who learned to code before I could drive. Nobody ever told me it was wrong or that I shouldn’t do what I love, they just never understood why I loved it so much.

The game starts.

Tyler doubles his first time up.

The crowd erupts.

My family erupts.

And I cheer too because he's my brother and I adore him. Even if family gatherings occasionally feel like episodes of The Tyler Appreciation Show. I get it. He’s the only boy.

By the sixth inning his team is cruising toward a win, so I head to the concession stand. One thing eGaming doesn’t have is snacks. That’s the only thing in the CON column. I love the big pretzels and the nachos at stadiums.

Someone taps me on the shoulder. "You must be Tyler's sister."

Tyler and I have the same eyes and facial structure, and people often mistake us for twins. If I wasn’t a year older, even our friends would swear it.

I glance over at the tall, athletic guy, wearing his baseball uniform. He has dark hair and an easy smile.

"Maybe," I say as one eyebrow lifts. "If you're about to tell me his batting average, I already know. He doesn’t stop talking about his 368-batting average and his 512 on base percentage."

“Chase.” He laughs and the sound is warm and genuine as he extends his hand.

"Maci."

His grin widens. "See? We already know more about each other than most people on dating apps."

A laugh escapes before I can stop it. "That's not exactly a high bar."

"I work with what I've got."

Okay, he's funny.

I find myself smiling at the concession stand. It’s almost a relief to actually laugh. I buy a pretzel and Chase helps me open several packets of mustard to dip it in. The concession worker hands him four waters and he says, “Come stand by the dugout. I’m done pitching so…”

“Okay, sure.”

The rest of the game passes surprisingly fast. Mostly because Chase provides running commentary and I end up watching the final three innings from there.

By the time Tyler's team wins, my cheeks hurt from smiling.

After the post-game celebration, I head toward my car.

"Maci."

I turn, seeing Chase jog across the parking lot.

"Hey."

"Hey." He shoves his hands into his pockets, suddenly less confident.

Interesting.

"A bunch of us are grabbing dinner." I already know where this is headed. "You should come."

For a second I hesitate, not because I don't want to, but because another thought slips in.

One I can't seem to shake lately.

I've spent nearly a decade talking to someone I've never met, and somehow that used to feel romantic instead of ridiculous.

We exchanged letters through mail-forwarding services, hid behind encrypted chats, used voice changers when we played, and followed all the rules we made for ourselves—boundaries, safeguards, no real names, no photos, no slipping up.

Back then, the secrecy made everything feel exciting, like we were the only two people in the world smart enough to build something that could survive without the normal pieces.

Now, after ten years, it’s exhausting. Because if Glitch walked past me on the street, I wouldn’t know it was him.

If he called my cell phone without the voice changer, I wouldn’t recognize his voice.

If he introduced himself, I might smile politely and keep walking, completely unaware that he knew me better than almost anyone else.

Chase could be him, standing right in front of me, and I still wouldn’t know.

"Maci?"

I blink.

Chase is still waiting. A normal guy asking me to dinner, having normal conversations, that doesn’t include skins, reload or coding.

Maybe that's what I need.

"Sure."

His smile grows. "Awesome."

There are a few beats of silence and I can’t stand silence. I’m a girl that’s used to hearing the rapid clicking of the controller, electronic beeps and the whoosh when you complete a quest.

“So, do you plan on playing baseball, forever?” I ask.

He shrugs. “Not sure, but it pays the bills now.”

I can tell he plays baseball because he’s good at it but not because it’s his whole world like it is for Tyler or soccer is for Lauren or gaming for me.

"What do you do?" he asks.

"I work in software."

His face lights up. "No kidding."

"Why does everyone say that?"

"Because I barely know how to reset my password."

I laugh.

"What kind of software?"

“Architecture. Think of it as the person that designs a building to make sure the foundation can meet the system demands, so the building doesn’t collapse,” I explain.

He listens, which surprises me. Most people glaze over after the first thirty seconds.

"That's impressive," he says.

Something warm settles in my chest. Because my family has never once described my job that way. It’s not that they don’t care. They just don’t understand.

"It's not what I really want to do."

"What do you want to do?"

The answer comes immediately. "Gaming."

No hesitation.

No second thoughts.

His eyes widen. "Seriously?"

"Seriously."

One corner of his mouth lifts.

"My roommate's cousin works for a gaming company in Austin."

My steps falter and my pulse kicks. "What company?"

His grin grows.

"You ever heard of Synatrix? I only know because sometimes we get to beta games."

The world tilts. Of course, I've heard of Synatrix. Every gamer ever has heard of it.

They're the company for innovation. It’s elite and impossible to get your foot in the door. I've applied three separate times with three separate but polite rejections.

My stomach flips. "Yeah," I say quietly. "I've heard of them."

"They're hiring."

I stop walking. My heart pounds against my ribs. “I’ve applied before and never made it past a phone interview. Evidently, I don’t design the ‘right’ type of games.”

Until now, I hadn’t really thought about unfinished letters or Glitch. Well, once, but everything always comes back to him. He was the boy that made me think it was okay to live in fictional worlds. The boy that pressed me to think outside the box, when all he wants is to stay inside his own.

“Maybe you’re applying for the wrong type of job. Check it out. I’d love to see more of you and my family lives in Austin, so I’ll be there all summer,” he says as he taps on his run-down truck. “This is me. Want a ride to the restaurant?”

“I’ll follow you.”

Tyler runs me down. “You’re coming?”

He grabs me into a hug and I squeak out, “Yes.” He gives me one more squeeze and runs to his car.

But all I can think about is Synatrix. Maybe I should look up their openings and try again. It’s time I go for what I want. I’m too young to settle for a job that I don’t love.

Maybe it's time to stop waiting.

Maybe it's time to finally move forward.

The thought should make me feel guilty.

Instead, it feels like freedom.