You’re six sweeps old and sitting inside because, well, who even goes outside anymore? You’ve got friends, or at least that’s what you call them sometimes, or what they call you, because when you never see each other and always call each other names, what are you? Your friends are so out of reach, only contactable through your husktop, so you’ve come up with a resolution. And that is to sit inside, the dim red of trollian dulled a maroon on your face. But the sad thing is, you’re not even talking to the friends you think you have. You’re not talking to anyone. You’re watching. Very patiently watching, like you’ve done for a long time, for sweeps, for moons, forever. You were pretty much raised on this shit, this “creepy stalker-like behaviour,” as it is called by the closest of your friends. At first you did it with caution, watching him, that is, but then it turned into a sick habit. And now you can’t live without your husktop and its viewport capabilities. Sometimes your friends invite you to hang around their hives, but you complain how it’s “too far,” or they are “too stupid,” for you to socialise with them. Though it’s really only because you can’t live without him. You can’t go a day without him. It, you chastise yourself internally, the screen watching. I can’t live without the screen watching.
Sometimes you think you can’t live without the boy. You think you might try to drown yourself in green slime or sleep all day or something if you didn’t have him to watch. You think watching him grow up is the best thing that has ever happened to you. And somewhere deep down, you know it is.
Sometimes you think you love the boy. You think you love him so god damn much that it hurts when you’re not as close as you can possibly be to him, which is forever far away, universes, but you’ve still got your viewport. Then again, you don’t know what love feels like. How could you possibly know what love feels like?
You think you love the boy. Maybe that’s why it hurts so much when he tells you to go away when you try to talk to him.
Maybe that’s why he never smiles when he talks to you.
Maybe that’s why you’re so miserable.
You’re six sweeps old and you’ve come to the conclusion that you love John Egbert. You love everything about him, from his goofy teeth and glasses, his strange taste in shitty movies, and the way he has so much fun playing outside on his little pogo shit. You love him so much.
But no one even knew that you never had a chance.