Eye Love U

Tanuki woke to the sound of his stomach growling. The room was dim, the blinds half‑drawn against the morning light, and the air smelled faintly of instant noodles and dust. He lay there for a while, staring at the ceiling, listening to the hum of the refrigerator in the next room. The glow of his phone screen on the nightstand pulled his attention. A message from Atlas blinked at the top: We’re online if you want to join. He swiped it away.

The apartment was small, barely more than a single room with a kitchenette and a bathroom tucked into the corner. The carpet was worn, the wallpaper peeling in places. He shuffled to the cabinet, pulled out another packet of ramen, and set water to boil. As he waited, he leaned against the counter, scrolling through his phone. Ads filled the feed. Rainforest promotions for movies, games, even groceries. Their logo was everywhere, a reminder that the corporation’s reach extended into every corner of life.

He ate quickly, the noodles hot and salty, then set the bowl aside and sat at the table. His eyes drifted to the corner of the room where a small box sat, taped shut. He hadn’t opened it in years. Inside were photographs, a few trinkets, and a necklace that had once belonged to his sister. He reached for it, then pulled his hand back. Not today.

The earthquake had taken everything. His parents, his sister, the house he grew up in. He had been at school when it happened, spared by chance, and ever since then he had lived like a shadow. No school now, no job, no family. Just drifting. He told himself he was unemployable, that no one would want someone like him. It was easier to believe that than to try. Easier to steal what he needed, to scrape by, to keep people at arm’s length.

His phone buzzed again. This time it was a message from Celeste. Did you make it back safely from Noctis?

He stared at the screen for a long moment before typing back. Yeah. Still alive. You?

Her reply came quickly. I’m fine. You fought well. Better than before.

He hesitated, then typed, You’re always there when I need help. Why?

There was a pause before her next message. Because I want to be.

He leaned back in his chair, the words lingering in his mind. He wanted to ask her to meet offline, to see if she was real, if she was someone he could actually sit across from in a café, someone who could prove he wasn’t just imagining this connection. He typed the words, then deleted them. Tried again, then deleted them once more. Finally, he sent: We should hang out sometime. Offline.

The typing indicator blinked for a long time before her reply appeared. I can’t. Not right now. Maybe someday.

He stared at the message, a hollow ache forming in his chest. He wanted to press her, to demand an explanation, but instead he set the phone down and rubbed his eyes. He told himself it didn’t matter. That it was just a game, just another person behind a screen. But the truth was, her words meant more to him than he wanted to admit.

The kettle whistled again, though he hadn’t filled it. He realized he’d turned it on without thinking. He shut it off, sat back down, and opened his HUD. The F‑Diver headset sat on the table, waiting. He hesitated, glancing once more at the taped box in the corner, then slid the headset on. The real world faded, and the stars of Constellarium opened before him again.

Tanuki pulled his hood tighter as he stepped out into the city. The streets of District 3 were already alive with the morning rush, people moving in waves toward trains, offices, and schools. He kept his head down, weaving through the crowd, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. The air smelled faintly of fried food from the vendors lining the sidewalks, but his stomach was still knotted from the ramen he’d forced down earlier.

He passed a convenience store and lingered by the window, watching the clerk restock shelves with neatly packaged sandwiches. His reflection in the glass looked tired, older than he was, the hood shadowing his face. He slipped inside, the bell above the door chiming softly. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, and the air was heavy with the smell of instant coffee and cleaning supplies.

He walked the aisles slowly, pretending to browse. His eyes flicked to the cameras in the corners, then to the clerk, who was now distracted by a customer at the counter. Tanuki’s hand darted out, slipping a protein bar into his pocket. His pulse quickened, but his face stayed calm as he picked up a bottle of water and carried it to the register. He paid for the water, thanked the clerk quietly, and walked out.

Outside, he unwrapped the bar and ate it quickly, the sweetness clinging to his teeth. He hated doing this, hated the way it made him feel like a ghost moving through a world that didn’t want him. But he told himself it was necessary. No one was going to hire someone like him. No one was going to give him a chance.

As he walked, his phone buzzed. A message from Celeste. You’re quiet today.

He typed back, Just tired. Went out for a bit.

Be careful, she replied. The world out there can be crueler than anything in Constellarium.

He stared at the words, his throat tightening. He wanted to tell her everything—the earthquake, the way the ground had swallowed his family whole, the nights he’d spent alone in shelters, the years of drifting from place to place. But he couldn’t. Not yet. Instead, he typed, I know. I’m used to it.

Her reply came after a pause. You shouldn’t have to be.

He slipped the phone back into his pocket, her words echoing in his mind as he walked aimlessly through the city. He passed a schoolyard where children were laughing, their voices carrying over the fence. For a moment, he stopped and watched, remembering his sister’s laughter, the way she used to call him Tanuki when he brought home shiny things he’d found. The memory hit him like a punch, and he turned away quickly, his chest aching.

By the time he returned to his apartment, the sun was setting, casting long shadows across the room. He dropped onto the bed, staring at the taped box in the corner. His hand twitched, wanting to open it, to see their faces again, but he forced himself to look away. Instead, he reached for the F‑Diver headset. The real world was heavy, suffocating. In Constellarium, at least, he could breathe.

He slid the headset on, and the stars opened before him once more.