Chapter 12
twelve
. . .
Maci
Home isn't always a place.
Sometimes it's the first person who makes the world feel quiet.
Sunday afternoon, I piddle around my room and for some reason, I open the box that says More Important Stuff. Glitch’s letters.
One of the last ones.
Rune,
I have rewritten this more times than is reasonable, which is inefficient and therefore irritating, but every version sounded wrong. Too formal. Too abrupt. Too much like an ending, and I do not like endings I did not choose.
You have been quieter lately. I noticed before I wanted to notice.
Your messages got shorter. Your letters took longer.
You stopped arguing with me about impossible boss fights and stopped sending terrible drawings of our characters in dramatic poses.
Statistically, people grow out of things.
Games. Habits. Other people. I know that.
I do not know how to calculate what it means to grow out of someone who was never technically yours.
That is the problem with what we built. It was made of safeguards and rules and encrypted chats and voice changers and mail-forwarded letters, but somehow it became the most real thing in my life anyway.
You know pieces of me no one else does. Not my co-workers.
Not my family. Not the people who think they understand me because they read my profile somewhere.
You know the version of me who loses patience with tutorials, who hates when developers confuse difficulty with laziness, and who once stayed awake for thirty-one hours because you said I could not beat your score.
You were correct, by the way. I could not. I still maintain the controller input lag was suspicious.
I am not writing this because I want you to feel obligated to answer.
I do not want obligation from you. I want the truth, even if the truth is that this mattered more to me than it did to you.
If you are done, tell me. If you are tired, tell me that too.
If you need silence, I can respect silence, but I would rather not be left trying to decode it.
I miss you. That is not efficient or logical or useful, but it is accurate.
—Glitch
I read the last line twice, then a third time, like the words might rearrange themselves into something easier to hold. I miss you. Three words, plain and honest and so unlike the careful games we used to play with each other that they make my throat ache.
Why couldn’t I ever finish the letter? I had written openings.
Dozens of them. Apologies, excuses, half-truths dressed up as kindness.
But every version felt like a lie because none of them could explain the real thing—that I was scared if I answered, I’d have to admit how much I still cared, and if I said goodbye, I’d have to accept that ten years could end with paper folded into a drawer.
And then another thought lands harder than all the rest. What did it do to him, sending this and getting nothing back? No final letter. No explanation. No clean ending. Just silence from the girl who used to fill every empty space with words.
For me, I wanted more than hiding behind screens. So maybe I just need to buckle up and write him that letter. Tomorrow. Maybe tomorrow.
I get ready slowly, not because I need the time. But courage. I need courage to wear that dress.
The gown feels different once my hair is styled and my makeup is done.
Less like fabric. More like armor. Noelle was right about the color; it makes my eyes look brighter, my hair look intentional, and my curves look like they belong exactly where they are.
I turn once in front of the mirror and almost don't recognize myself.
Some people are self conscious about being a little thick or plus size but not me. I am who I am.
Then my phone buzzes.
Chase: At the event with Tyler. Fancy enough to be uncomfortable. Send help.
I smile.
By the time I meet them in the lobby, Tyler is wearing a tux like he was born to be photographed in one, and Chase looks handsome in a relaxed, easy way that makes three women near the entrance take a second glance. He sees me and goes completely still.
"Maci," he says. "Wow."
Tyler groans. "Do not say wow to my sister like that."
Chase lifts both hands. "Respectful wow."
"Still hate it."
I laugh, and some of my nerves loosen.
The gala is being held in one of the grand event spaces connected to the arena, but calling it an event space feels insulting.
The ballroom glows with soft gold light and massive screens displaying the SGI Foundation logo.
Tables are dressed in black linens with emerald accents, and beyond the cocktail area, adaptive gaming stations line one side of the room.
Kids and families move between them with volunteers, trying controllers with raised buttons, gloves with haptic feedback, headsets designed for spatial audio, and game demos built around sound, touch, and guided narration.
For a moment, I forget about the dress.
I forget about Chase beside me.
I forget about proving myself.
Because this—this is gaming the way I always wished people understood it.
Not wasting time.
Not hiding from the real world.
Not kids staring at screens because they have nothing better to do.
Connection.
Access.
Belonging.
A little boy wearing dark glasses laughs as a controller vibrates in his hands and the headset tells him where to move. His mother covers her mouth, eyes filling with tears. A volunteer explains how the navigation system works, but the boy isn't listening anymore. He's playing.
My chest tightens.
"Okay," Chase says softly beside me. "That's pretty damn cool."
"Yeah," I whisper. "It is."
Tyler has already found two Armadillos players and is trying very hard to act normal.
He fails immediately. Chase drifts into conversation with someone near the demo stations, easy and charming as always, and I'm grateful for him.
Truly. He is kind and supportive and the reason I even looked at the Synatrix opening again.
But when Witt walks into the ballroom, every part of me notices.
He wears a black tux like it was designed by someone who understood sharp lines and quiet power.
No flashy tie. No unnecessary pocket square.
Nothing extra. Just Witt, controlled and composed, moving through a room full of wealthy donors, athletes, executives, and media like he would rather be literally anywhere else but will endure it because the cause matters.
His eyes skim the room.
Then stop on me.
Not long enough for anyone else to notice.
But enough that my breath catches.
Oh.
I know that look.
It's not the same look from the kitchen or the office or the hallway outside the boardroom. It's quicker than all of those, but somehow heavier. Like he registered the dress, me in the dress, and whatever problem that creates inside his brain, then immediately locked it away.
He turns to greet a sponsor.
I remember how to breathe.
Barely.
The next hour moves in a blur of introductions, handshakes, and conversations I somehow manage not to ruin.
Sutton introduces me to team owners. J.D.
tells someone that my rookie program is "the real deal.
" Matt asks about accessibility partnerships with the same thoughtful intensity he brought to my first-day tour.
Noelle appears at random intervals to squeeze my arm, fix my hair, or whisper things like, "You're killing it," before disappearing again.
And Witt watches, not constantly, but I feel it every time his eyes look my way.
Chase is by my side when I explain the rookie program to a sponsor and when I talk about mentorship and first-rival achievements. But then he sees Birdie.
“Is that the Birdie? The kick ass rock star?” He asks before stammering, “Do you mind if I?”
“Of course not, go. Have fun.”
But when I kneel beside a visually impaired girl and ask what she likes most about the controller, she can’t stop talking about the skins and how they match the team she plays on in the game. Witt researched the colors so that the visibly impaired could see them best.
Witt sticks his hand out, helping me to stand in this dress. “You were right.”
“About?”
“About bringing the game inside the screen to real life. You might take my job.” He scoffs, knowing that’s not true.
He skims the curve of my hips and chest with his eyes.
It seems he wants to say something else but he stops short when a reporter comes up and asks, “Aren’t you worried about screen time for children? ”
Witt opens his mouth but I cut him off because I was a child who had nothing of her own until gaming.
“No, we’re not. That’s the parents responsibility to apply rules to their children but sometimes gaming is the first place a kid feels capable instead of limited.
Everyone isn’t an O’Ryan that can throw a football a hundred yards or dash down the sideline to make a leaping catch.
Sometimes gaming is where kids build confidence. ”
I look up at Witt. He’s taller than J.D. and Greyson by a smidge and I’m sure he has athletic ability. Noelle cheered in college so athleticism is in their DNA, yet he’s a gamer. It makes me wonder why.
The reporter keeps asking questions and Witt listens without interrupting or correcting me. So, I hope I’m toeing the company line and don’t get fired. But if I do, I have two years’ salary coming. But I’d rather help Witt continue to grow and expand his companies.
The pride that unfurls inside me is almost overwhelming. Not because of him. Not entirely. Because for the first time in my life, the thing I love makes sense to everyone around me. They're asking real questions. They're listening to the answers. They're treating games like they matter.
And I helped build a small piece of that.
When Witt finally takes the stage, the room quiets before he reaches the microphone.