Page 10 of Push My Buttons
There’s a pause.
"Was that a laugh?" HexedOut sounds delighted.
"Told you she’s not a bot," WrathSpawn says. "She’s just ignoring us like a queen."
I type: Maybe silence is just classier than whatever you were about to say.
"Ouch," HexedOut groans. "Savage."
They don’t push. Don’t ask why I don’t speak. Maybe they just think I’m introverted. Or shy. Or too focused on the game. Either way, it works for me. The headset picks up my breathing and the occasional soft exhale, but they seem content filling the space with banter and competition.
And for now, that’s enough.
The banter continues between matches. HexedOut drops a stream of nonsense that would make any HR department spontaneously combust. WrathSpawn speaks only when necessary, but when he does, it hits with the weight of someone who doesn't waste words. They’re opposites, but they balance each other in-game. And somehow, over time, they've started to feel… familiar.
Like home.
We play round after round until my trigger finger aches and my hoodie clings damp to my back. It’s the good kind of tired, though. The kind that comes from being somewhere that, even virtually, feels like I belong.
"We converting you back to full-time gamer yet?" HexedOut teases.
"She doesn’t owe you her presence," WrathSpawn cuts in.
"Jealousy doesn’t look good on you, man."
I send an animated dancing skull gif.
"MVP. That’s our girl," HexedOut says after my final snipe.
"Precision," WrathSpawn adds.
I feel warmth bloom in my chest. It’s stupid. They don’t know me. Not really.
But for a moment, I let myself pretend. Pretend that this version of me—this silent warrior on their six—is all I’ve ever been.
Not a girl hiding behind a mask. Not a ghost waiting to be recognized.
Just… Silence.
One more match. Then another.
Eventually, I feel the crash coming—the emotional comedown, the late-night ache that even pixelated camaraderie can’t cure. My fingers hover over the keyboard.
[Silence has logged out.]
Just like that, the world fades.
I yank off the headset and blink at the quiet apartment, with its creaking floors and shadows that stretch just a little too long.
They don’t know who I am.
And I need it to stay that way.
Even if… sometimes… I wonder what it would be like if they did know me.
What would they say if they knew? If they saw the girl behind the screen? Not the sharpshooter or the snarky texter. Just me. Tired. Running. Covered in invisible scars that haven’t healed right.
Would they still crack jokes if they knew my real name? The one splashed across old news headlines, trailing behind my brother’s legacy like a stain no bleach could touch?
