1 “Wait, so the admin actually used to date Devin Cole?” “Oh my god, she literally made him lemon drops so he would quit smoking, and he pulled her in by the collar and kissed her in the rain.” “What kind of romance novel is this?!

My heart can’t take it. Please, please get back together!” “+1” “+10,000.” The team facility was pitchblack.

I sat alone on the living room sofa, the cold blue glow of my phone illuminating the dark as I scrolled through every single comment under that viral post.

My thumbs hovered over the keypad for a long moment before I typed out a text to Devin: Are you going to clarify that I’m your actual girlfriend?

Thirty minutes passed before the screen lit up with his reply: Can’t be bothered to post. Another thirty minutes crept by.

A second message popped up: Why are you even paying attention to random internet gossip? I set my phone face down on the glass coffee table and let out a long, quiet breath.

There was a time when becoming Devin Cole’s girlfriend was the only dream I had.

But standing beside someone whom the entire world put on a pedestal was never the fairytale I’d imagined. 2 When I was seventeen, my childhood friend dragged me to my very first offline esports arena.

I still remember the deafening roar of the crowd when the final nexus cracked, and the casters’ voices booming through the stadium speakers: “Who could ever forget Devin Cole?

The greatest natural talent this region has ever seen—the undisputed king of tactical shooters!” “Unmatched mechanics, pure dominance, completely peerless!” Back then, Devin was magnetic.

Men wanted to be him; women threw themselves at him; even passersby on the street couldn't look away from his sharp, effortless brilliance. I spent five years loving him from afar.

But unlike the countless girls who orbited his periphery, I didn't want to just be a face in the crowd. I actually wanted to reach him.

I majored in sports management in college and landed an administrative job at his organization the second I graduated.

The first time I met him in the hallway of the training facility, I stepped right into his path. “Hi.

I’m Nora.” He lowered his gaze, his dark, sharp eyes scanning me for two or three silent seconds.

Then, holding his iced Americano, he walked right past my shoulder. “Move.” He was icy, aloof, and possessed the solitary arrogance of an untouchable prodigy.

Later, I found out why he was particularly irritable that week: his first love had just broken up with him before moving abroad.

I was young then, stubborn enough to run straight into a brick wall without slowing down. Everyone in the club quickly realized I was pursuing him.

During one scrim review, the head coach leaned back and teased him, “Come on, Devin, just give the girl a chance.

They say pursuing a guy is like parting a silk curtain, so why is she running into a vault door with you?” Devin barely looked up from his match replay.

When he finally glanced at me, his mouth curved into a flat, humorless smirk. “What do you even like about me, Nora?” he asked coolly. “Tell me, and I’ll change it.” 3 “I like that you don't like me,” I shot back.

He stared at me, speechless, before grabbing a throw pillow from the couch and tossing it straight into my chest.

People say consistency wears down stone, that warmth eventually melts ice. For years, I greeted his cold indifference with unconditional smiles.

He treated me like background noise, but I never left. Until the night our team won a major tournament. The club went out to celebrate at a private lounge, and the room grew rowdy.

Several players started egging me on to sing a duet with our rookie support player. Before I could even pick up the microphone, Devin abruptly stood up.

He seized my wrist, dragged me out into the dim hallway, and backed me against the wall, staring down into my eyes. “Do you still like me?” he demanded, his voice low and raspy. “Doesn’t everyone like you, Devin?” I wasn't lying.

His godtier mechanics had earned him a terrifyingly massive fanbase. There wasn't an FPS player in the country who didn't have his highlight clips saved on their hard drive.

He was practically a living deity. Devin looked down at me for a few long, quiet seconds.

Then he leaned in, his lips brushing softly against my cheek. “Then stop singing duets with other guys,” he murmured against my skin. “Be my girlfriend.” 4 That was how we started.

Aside from our teammates and close industry insiders, our relationship was never made public online. Devin insisted on keeping it that way.

While I told myself it was his choice, there were quiet nights when the secrecy stung.

Whenever I brought it up, he would pull me onto his lap and wrap his arms around me. “What’s so great about being under the public microscope?” he’d say dismissively. “Do you really want strangers stopping you at the grocery store just to interrogate you about being my girlfriend?” He was right, in a way.

I wasn't an influencer; I was just behindthescenes staff. With his fanatical female fanbase, going public could have turned my life into a living nightmare.

Yet on the night he lifted another regional trophy, his exgirlfriend—Lacey, a prominent broadcast caster who had just returned from overseas—posted a sprawling, nostalgic letter on social media. “Devin and I met back in 2009.

Watching him take the championship today brought a sudden ache to my chest. The boy who used to stay by my side through everything has finally grown up. He has a sensitive stomach.

Sometimes, when I set a glass of warm milk on the nightstand, I realize that the boy who used to pout and beg me to comfort him isn't there anymore.

I’m posting this just to honor the past, I suppose. He and I can never go back to what we were~” Beneath the post, thousands of comments flooded in: “Omg, get back together!

Please!” “The unresolved tension is killing me!” “Lacey, please take him back, you’re the only girl we’ll ever accept as our queen!” A dull, suffocating weight settled over my chest.

I clicked my phone screen off. The heavy front door swung open. The championship squad was back from their afterparty.

Devin, dressed in his black team jacket, furrowed his sharp brows as he tossed his keys onto the table and looked at me lazily. “What are you throwing a tantrum for?” he asked. “Aren’t you going to bed?” He knew exactly what was happening on the internet.

He just didn't care enough to say a single word of explanation. 5 “Devin, we need to talk.” It was two o'clock the following afternoon when Devin finally walked out of his bedroom.

I hadn’t slept a wink all night. I stood directly in front of him, blocking his path down the hall.

He squinted at me, his oversized black tshirt hanging loosely over his broad shoulders. Droplets of water still clung to his jawline from a hasty face wash.

Even exhausted and disheveled, he was undeniably striking. “Whatever it is, tell me later,” he said flatly. “I have a sponsored stream this afternoon.” He brushed past my shoulder without a second glance.

Devin’s stream went live right after his title win, and the viewership instantly broke records.

What I didn't anticipate was that the person joining his voice channel was his exgirlfriend, Lacey. “Hey, Devin, my aim is super rusty, okay?

Don’t yell at me,” her voice came through the speakers, sweet and delicate. Devin gave a low, noncommittal hum.

The chat exploded: [Look at him being so gentle!] [Devin Cole, you never speak that softly to anyone else!] I sat at my desk, watching the stream with a sick, masochistic fascination.

Devin was notorious in the competitive scene for his short fuse; his unmatched mechanical skill came with brutal intolerance for teammates who couldn't keep up.

I still vividly remembered the first time he agreed to queue with me in a casual lobby. He had snapped within ten minutes: “Put your crosshair on the target and click.

Is that complicated?” “Did you even turn your monitor on?” “Nora, if you’re going to play like dead weight, don't ask me to duo.” On stream, Lacey was playing far worse than I had back then.

She died in almost every duel, feeding round after round to the enemy team. “Um... Devin?

I just got back from the UK, so I’m really bad at this,” she whispered hesitantly during a halftime break when Devin remained quiet. “Are you... mad at me?” The chat was already spamming: [Her gameplay is giving me brain damage.] [Devin is definitely fuming.

He has never babysat anyone this bad.] Then, the mic clicked open.

Devin’s deep voice resonated through the stream, softer than I had ever heard it: “No.” “That round was on me.” “If we don’t win, it’s because I played bad, not you.” The chat lost its collective mind. [WHAT?!

Devin Cole admitting HE played bad?!] [If he’s bad, then the rest of the world doesn’t have hands!] [He loves her so much, I can’t breathe.] [Just announce you’re back together already!] I stared at the glowing monitor, a sharp, bitter ache tearing through my ribcage.

So he did know how to comfort a girl. He wasn't naturally ruthless to everyone. He just reserved his patience for someone else.

When I first joined the org, the head coach had warned me that Devin’s first love had carved an indelible mark into him.

Rumors said he had once threatened to tear up his contract just to follow her abroad when she left. It turned out the rumors hadn't even captured the half of it.

I closed the stream, walked over to the glass wall of the main scrim room, and watched him through the reflection. I had loved him for so many years.

He had been the blinding center of gravity for my entire youth. Back then, I thought that standing beside him as his girlfriend would be the pinnacle of happiness.

Now, standing in the quiet hallway, the truth finally crystallized. The person worshipped by millions, the person who inspired awe and devotion on stage, was Devin the Champion.

Not the man before me, who looked through his own girlfriend as if she were made of glass. 6 Devin wrapped up his broadcast around seven in the evening.

I was waiting outside the practice room when he pushed the door open. Seeing me standing there, he rubbed the bridge of his nose in visible annoyance. “What now?

Do you really have to do this?” he sighed. “You want me to post a clarification, right? Fine. I’ll draft a tweet after dinner saying you’re my real girlfriend.

Happy now?” He bent his knees slightly, leaning down to meet my face. A faint, mocking smile touched the corner of his lips. “Did you cry?

Nora, aren’t you embarrassed?” His playful cadence held no real warmth—only condescension.

I inhaled deeply, looking straight into his eyes. “Don’t bother posting anything.” “Let’s break up.” His smirk froze.

A rare flicker of bewilderment passed over his features. “What did you just say?” I looked at him calmly and repeated every syllable: “I said, we’re done.” “Devin.”