Chapter Text
[ XX : XX p.m, Apr. XX, Cafeteria, Silver University ]
Shadow Milk would like to say that he didn’t react that much and that he definitely didn’t look stupid while staring at his phone like it personally offended him. But one could hope. Hope is free, after all, and he’s currently running on it like it’s his only remaining resource.
He hopes that he didn’t sound anything remotely like a dumbass.
He doesn’t. Surely not. Absolutely not. Not even a little. Not even in an alternate universe where his brain cells unionized and quit.
Shadow Milk’s eyes swept once over the thread, his thumb swiping up and down as he kept re-reading it. Every reply, every tweet, every word—like he’s trying to dissect it under a microscope he doesn’t actually have, searching for microscopic traces of embarrassment. As if he’d be able to change anything even if there was a remotely stupid-sounding reply. As if Twitter had a magical “undo your personality” button hidden somewhere in the settings.
Of course not. That would be too merciful.
But it didn’t hurt to re-read them again. For entertainment. That’s all it was. Purely recreational. A casual stroll through his own digital footprints that definitely didn’t feel like retracing steps at a crime scene. That’s literally the start of everything, so of course that’s his reason too. Completely logical. Very sound. No emotional attachment whatsoever. None. Zero. Ignore the way his thumb hasn’t stopped moving.
Looking over the thread, there weren’t many replies from random people this time. Probably because it was new. Fresh meat hadn’t arrived yet. The thread was also shorter—cut short by Shadow Milk himself. Not because he was currently overthinking every single reply, obviously. He’s not thinking about it; this is casual. Relaxed. Effortless. He practically invented casual. Even their conversation was casual—short, simple, nothing much to look at, really. This was the most casual conversation ever conducted in the history of conversations.
He didn’t end it because he was feeling too giddy to the point of spontaneous combustion. No way. That would be ridiculous. He is not ridiculous.
So he swipes up again, re-reading every line of the thread from the start, distantly noting the rising heart count and a few retweets. His brain registers it like a passing cloud—there, then gone—before immediately returning to the replies like a dog chasing the same stick over and over again. He sees a reply under his third tweet saying that he was panicking. His thumb swipes up again before his brain can even protest, traitor that it is. Then he re-reads it again from the start, because obviously he needs to make sure. Verification is important. Scientific method. Even if he already knows that it’s impossible for him to panic.
C’mon, me? Panicking? Pfft. I’d be the one making people panic, he thinks, internally rolling his eyes so hard it feels like they might clock out early.
For a moment, it looks normal. It sounds normal. Exactly how he would usually reply to anyone, no matter who it is, because he believes in equality. Equal levels of sarcasm for everyone. A true humanitarian.
And then, somehow, it shifts. Just a little. Subtle. Like the tone decided to lean slightly to the left without asking for permission. Even though that should be impossible to perceive in text. Words are just words. They don’t have tone. They don’t have feelings. They don’t whisper, “Hey, you sound nervous,” directly into his ear like an annoying little ghost.
Damnit, why does it actually sound like he was panicking?
There is no way he was panicking. That’s absurd. Laughable. Borderline offensive. Maybe it’s just the influence of that reply—that one accusation planting itself like a parasite in his brain, warping his perception. That has to be it. Because objectively—objectively—it still looks perfectly normal.
And look—look—he really did just ask a question. That’s it. A simple, harmless question. While also correcting Viri, because obviously he wouldn’t want the other person to misunderstand. That’s just responsible communication. Preventative measures. Damage control before there’s even damage. Or, more accurately, so it won’t be used against him later as some kind of emotional bullet.
The randoms are already doing that for Viri. He doesn’t need to hand them ammunition wrapped in a neat little bow. That would be embarrassing. And he has standards. Questionable standards, but standards nonetheless.
Propping his head up on his palm, Shadow Milk scrolls down, moving on to the next reply because now—obviously—he needs to dissect everything more thoroughly after that mini-defense he just staged in his own head. It sounds a bit—just a tiny bit—normal now. Slightly less incriminating. Still a bit defensive, though. Which is justified, because why the hell is the Viri bot clocking him every single reply like it’s getting paid for it?
Is that normal? Is that part of the experience? Or is that some kind of supernatural ability exclusive to Viri roleplayers? A hidden skill tree he wasn’t informed about? Or maybe it’s just this specific roleplayer, personally dedicated to exposing him like a live commentary track.
He is not going to dwell on that. Absolutely not. That path leads to introspection, and introspection leads to uncomfortable realizations, and he did not sign up for that today.
Still, he can’t help but admire how consistent the person is. The characterization, the dialogue—it’s all annoyingly on point. They manage to capture that poetic nature without tipping over into cringe or trying too hard. It actually feels like he’s talking to Viri. Just… slightly more dangerous now that it’s one-on-one. On Twitter. Of all places.
It’s kind of insane, actually. He wouldn’t have done this before. Not even on a dare.
And yet.
He could at least admit that it’s fun. There. Honesty. A rare and fleeting guest, but present nonetheless.
Shadow Milk scrolls down to the very last reply, re-reads it, and then immediately has to close his eyes for a moment like his brain needs to buffer. He opens them again and re-reads it anyway, because apparently he enjoys suffering. He shifts in his seat, crossing his legs under the table, while the last reply loops in his mind for the thousandth time like a song that refuses to leave.
Heh. Gladly, huh?
Will the other person actually wait? Checking their phone every minute like a fool, anticipating when Shadow Milk will grace them with his online presence? Or are they just… normal about it? He tries to imagine them, because of course he does—his brain, ever helpful, immediately constructing a visual.
Their features blur and shift, influenced by the character they’re roleplaying. Something soft, something whimsical. Like a faerie dressed in shades of green, leaves woven into fabric, flowers lazily orbiting their face like they have nothing better to do. There’s something almost… eager about them. Like a puppy waiting for their owner to come back—but make it a whimsical faerie, draped in soft greens like they were stitched straight out of a forest’s wardrobe, petals and tiny flowers lazily orbiting their face, glowing faintly like they, too, were waiting, patient and quietly hopeful.
It’s really something.
The kind of thing only someone with too much imagination and not enough self-restraint would come up with. Which is to say—him.
He really needs to put his phone down.
If he’s still fighting a smile from appearing on his face, then that is absolutely the reply’s fault and not his. External factors. Completely out of his control. Also, he is winning. He would like that noted for the record, especially to his inner council, who are currently arguing like a dysfunctional committee that should’ve been disbanded years ago.
Putting his phone down, Shadow Milk finally drags his attention back to reality. The noise of the cafeteria slowly fades back into his awareness, like someone unmuted the world after giving him a generous pause to process his own nonsense. It genuinely feels like everything waited for him to finish reasoning with himself before resuming. Which is ridiculous. But also—rude.
He glances at his friends, who are probably still talking about something he stopped paying attention to ages ago in favor of his new favorite distraction. Maybe planning an after-school hangout. The café Eternal Sugar mentioned earlier—something about it vaguely rings a bell, like a memory knocking politely and being ignored.
Or not.
Shadow Milk pauses. Raises an eyebrow. Says nothing.
They’re all looking at him. Again. With a delightful mix of confusion, bewilderment, and mild astonishment—except for Mystic Flour, who looks exactly the same as always, which somehow makes it worse. Her gaze is fixed on him with those void-like eyes, as if he just grew a second head and she’s trying to decide whether to comment on it or wait for it to hatch.
Actually—all of them are looking at him like that.
“What?”
Burning Spice tilts his head slightly toward Eternal Sugar, lips curling downward while still staring at Shadow Milk. “What the hell’s wrong with him?”
Eternal Sugar, for her part, shifts her expression back into bored disappointment like she’s already reached her lifetime quota of caring. “How would I know?”
“I have never seen him act like that. Are you certain he is well?” Mystic Flour’s voice is calm, precise, and entirely too observant for his liking.
Silent Salt doesn’t say anything, but his silence paired with the unblinking stare is somehow louder than words. It’s the kind of silence that judges you.
Eternal Sugar turns her head away again, dismissing the entire situation with a flick of her hand like she’s brushing off crumbs. “He’s just being his usual… self again. I say we leave him to it and continue.”
“On another note, everyone is free by four, yes?”
There’s hesitation—subtle, but there. Their eyes linger on Shadow Milk a moment longer, like looking away might trigger some unforeseen consequence. But eventually, they nod, mutter their confirmations, and move on.
And just like that, he’s dismissed. Ignored with the elegance of something inconvenient but not worth addressing.
He doesn’t even get the chance to respond. Not that he was going to. Obviously.
Shadow Milk, however, is perfectly content to be ignored and left alone with his thoughts. For once. See? There’s a silver lining. When you have friends like this, you learn to appreciate the small mercies. Like being socially abandoned.
Anyway.
Now that he’s alone again, his thoughts inevitably circle back to the thread, because his brain apparently has a one-track mind and zero hobbies. Instead of, say, being productive. Or thinking about his classwork. Or literally anything useful.
Yeah. As if.
Who’s actually doing their work before it’s due? That sounds fake. Suspicious, even. Definitely not him.
He intertwines his fingers, propping his head up again as he stares at his phone. With a calmer mind—slightly calmer, at least—interacting with the character bot isn’t actually that bad. And he already admitted it was fun, so why is he still hesitating?
If it entertains him, why hold back? That’s not him. He doesn’t hold back. He leans in. Dramatically, if necessary.
And it’s not like it’s cringe—okay, maybe a little. A microscopic amount. But there are far worse things out there. Other character bots. Other interactions that go from zero to “we’re married now” in three replies.
He will not be like that.
He has standards. Style. A brand to maintain, even if that brand is loosely defined chaos.
Plus, this Viri is actually decent. More than decent. So it makes sense that he’d enjoy it naturally, without overthinking every single interaction. It feels like talking to a close acquaintance who just happens to speak like a walking poem.
The person behind the account is just that good.
So really—why is he overthinking this? Why hesitate? This isn’t him. It never has been.
This whole thing started because of a temporary lapse in logic anyway, so why not just enjoy it while it lasts?
Shadow Milk nods to himself, arriving at a decision that feels disproportionately important. Like he just solved something monumental instead of deciding to keep chatting online.
At least, for once, it feels like he agrees with himself. A rare alignment.
And then a jab to his elbow nearly sends his face into the table, giving him a brief, vivid glimpse of what regret might taste like. He barely catches himself, snapping upright and turning his head so fast his neck protests loudly.
“We are already going. If you wish to stay here and be lost to whatever you are losing yourself to, then be lost.”
Eternal Sugar doesn’t even look concerned. Not that he expected anything else, but still. A crumb of concern wouldn’t kill her.
The others are already moving on, not even bothering to wait.
“Really amazing friends I have here,” he mutters, rolling his eyes as he stands, grabbing his phone and slinging his bag over his shoulder.
“Well, unlike you, we still have classes to attend. How lucky for you, hm?”
Truly.
He has such amazing friends.
[ XX : XX p.m, Apr. XX, ??? Intersection ]
The buildings and scenery slipped past in a soft, watercolor blur as the van eased to a reluctant halt at the intersection, as if even it had somewhere better to be. They waited for the traffic light to turn green—patient in theory, restless in practice. Cars lined up one by one like mismatched soldiers: some sleek, some battered, some loud enough to announce their presence twice over. A few impatient horns broke through the air, sharp and insistent, because it was rush hour and, apparently, everyone had somewhere more important to exist.
Pure Vanilla’s manager adjusted the rearview mirror with a small, practiced motion, her eyes flicking toward him for only a second—quick, efficient, like she was checking a detail she already knew.
Yet all of it—the noise, the waiting, the world inching forward—was lost on Pure Vanilla. He sat there, looking at his phone as if it had quietly turned into something rare and fragile, a treasure he wasn’t entirely sure he deserved. A small smile lingered on his face, soft but stubborn. He stared at the screen, perhaps rereading the messages, perhaps waiting for one more reply that logic had already dismissed.
From the last message, it was clear enough. The conversation had reached its natural end. No ellipses hanging in the air, no half-finished thoughts begging for continuation. And it had been a few minutes already since he sent his reply—long enough for silence to settle in and make itself comfortable. The kind of silence that didn’t need to explain itself.
Still, Pure Vanilla wasn’t upset. Not even close.
If anything, he was quietly, unexpectedly happy.
It had been random—almost absurdly so. Truthfully, he had nearly forgotten about the entire interaction. There hadn’t been any new messages from Muse for quite some time, and the absence had slowly blended into the background noise of his days. And those days, recently, had been anything but calm. They had been packed tight with schedules, locations, meetings, and the constant reshuffling that came with his rising popularity. New opportunities, new expectations, sponsorships, appearances—it all came rushing in like a tide that didn’t ask permission.
It was exciting, yes, but also disorienting in that way new things often are—like being handed a map halfway through the journey and realizing you were already expected to know the destination.
So really, no one could blame him if, for a moment, his interaction with Muse had been gently swept aside. Not forgotten, not erased—just nudged to the back of his mind by a whirlwind that felt suspiciously like a polite tornado. The kind that says “excuse me” while rearranging your entire schedule.
And then, in the middle of an otherwise quiet ride to the set, it happened.
A familiar notification sound slipped into the silence—a soft chime, delicate and almost shy, like it didn’t want to interrupt but did anyway. It lingered in the air just long enough to be noticed, like a tap on the shoulder that pretends to be accidental.
At first, he ignored it.
Or at least, he tried to.
He kept his gaze on the window, watching the outside world dissolve into motion and color. It felt easier that way—simpler. He already knew nothing urgent was waiting for him. If there were any important updates, they would go through his manager first, filtered and organized before reaching him. That was the system. Predictable. Reliable.
Safe.
He would have continued ignoring it, too, if not for the quiet persistence of a thought that refused to stay quiet. A small, nagging feeling nudged at his attention, not loud enough to demand, but consistent enough to linger. It whispered—not insistently, but convincingly.
Check it. Just in case.
And Pure Vanilla wasn’t the type to ignore that kind of whisper. Not when it repeated itself with the patience of someone who knew they would eventually be heard.
So he gave in.
And he was very, very glad that he did.
The moment he saw the username, his attention snapped into place like a compass finding north. And then the question—simple, almost disarmingly so—somehow managed to feel like a spark landing in dry air.
What are you doing?
It was a question he had heard countless times before. From friends, colleagues, staff, his manager—people who existed in his world, who had access to him in ways that made the question feel routine, almost automatic. Even strangers had asked him the same thing before, especially now that his name carried more weight, more visibility.
So why did this feel different?
Maybe it was because they were a stranger.
But that explanation didn’t quite hold, did it? There were plenty of strangers. An entire sea of them, in fact. And none of their questions had ever felt like this—light, curious, oddly personal without trying too hard.
Maybe it was because they weren’t entirely strangers anymore.
There was history there, small but real. A handful of exchanged words that had somehow managed to carve out a space—tiny, but noticeable. Enough to make this moment feel like a continuation instead of a coincidence.
Yes, that must be it.
And still, even with all that reasoning, it didn’t fully explain the quiet warmth that settled in his chest.
But he didn’t question it too much.
He was happy that this particular stranger had asked.
And, if he was being honest, he was more than willing to indulge.
Of course, he had to be careful. Vague enough to keep the boundaries intact, thoughtful enough to make the reply feel genuine. It was a delicate balance—like speaking through a slightly open door, letting just enough light through without revealing the whole room.
But even with that restraint, the experience didn’t feel lacking.
It was brief, yes. Short enough to fit between the passing of traffic lights and the shifting of schedules. But it didn’t feel small. It didn’t fade into insignificance the way most fleeting interactions did.
Instead, it felt like catching a glimpse of something curious—a small, intriguing detail that might linger longer than expected. The kind of thing that quietly tucks itself into your thoughts and waits for the right moment to resurface.
And right now, it felt like it already had.
Though, perhaps, it had retreated for the moment.
Maybe Muse had gotten busy. The way the conversation paused suggested as much. And thinking back on his last reply—how it had landed so precisely, almost accidentally—he couldn’t help but wonder. He hadn’t even meant to hit the mark like that.
Still, he had learned something, hadn’t he?
A small detail, but something nonetheless.
Did Muse tend to check their social media while doing other things? Was it a habit? A distraction? A quiet escape tucked into the middle of their day?
The thought made him smile again, softer this time.
There was something endearing about it. The idea of someone pausing mid-task just to peek at a message, just to respond—even briefly. It painted a picture that felt unexpectedly vivid.
Did Muse get easily distracted?
That, too, was strangely endearing.
And perhaps even more so—the fact that, in that moment, they had thought of him.
Pure Vanilla glanced at the message thread again, eyes tracing over the last exchange as if his mind was trying to press it into memory, to keep it from slipping away too quickly. Then, with a small exhale, he turned his phone off.
The screen went dark, and for a second, it reflected his face back at him—clearer than he expected.
There it was.
That smile.
It was growing again, uninvited but not unwelcome. Slow and steady, like it had all the time in the world. He paused, caught off guard by his own reflection, as if seeing it from the outside made it more real.
And for a moment, he wasn’t entirely sure what to do with it.
So he did the simplest thing—he looked away.
Turning his attention back to the window, he lifted his phone slightly, holding it near his lips as if it could somehow conceal the lightness settling there. As if a thin piece of glass could hide something that had already decided to stay.
Outside, the vehicles began to move again, first slowly, then with growing confidence. The city resumed its rhythm, and the scenery once again slipped past in a steady stream. But now, it felt… duller—not entirely uninteresting, but lacking that quiet charm it had earlier. Like a song that sounded better before you realized you were distracted by something else entirely.
He glanced forward, almost absentmindedly, and met his manager’s gaze in the rearview mirror.
She had been watching him.
Not overtly, not in a way that demanded explanation—but long enough to notice something was different. Her eyebrow lifted slightly, curiosity flickering just beneath the surface. She didn’t ask anything. The silence inside the van remained intact, stretching comfortably between them.
Pure Vanilla froze for half a second.
Then he smiled—awkwardly at first, awareness catching up to him in a small, delayed wave. It wasn’t enough to erase the expression, though. If anything, it only made it worse. The smile widened, betraying him without hesitation.
In a quiet attempt at damage control, he lifted his phone a little higher, as if that might somehow hide the evidence. She held his gaze for another moment before turning her attention back to the road, the question left unspoken but not entirely dismissed.
Crisis averted.
Mostly.
He exhaled softly and turned back to the window., offering no explanation—because there wasn’t really one to give. Or at least, not one that would make sense out loud.
The silence settled again, softer this time. Comfortable, almost. His mind, left to its own devices, wandered back.
The cool surface of his phone pressed lightly against his lips, grounding him just enough as his thoughts replayed the conversation. Line by line, tone by tone, like a scene he wasn’t quite ready to leave.
And just like that, he slipped back into his own little world. The rest of everything faded slightly at the edges.
Keep waiting, hm?
The words echoed in his mind, quieter now but no less persistent. He considered them, turning them over like a thought that deserved more than a passing glance.
But the answer had already been decided. It had been there even before he fully realized the question.
Oh, he would wait. Of course he would.
Not impatiently. Not desperately.
Just… willingly.
Because now, there was something to look forward to.
And somehow, that made all the difference.