My Sunshine, My Gloom

My childhood best friend was bright and cheerful, like the sun itself.
Even his rejection was swift and absolute, leaving no room for daydreams. He’d introduce me to his friends, for example. And I’d see a boy hiding behind a column, peeking out at me with half a face.
As someone who’s a sucker for a pretty face, I thought, Well, he’s not bad.
After the gloomy introvert started dating me, he began to shine. And the golden boy, my sun, went mad with jealousy. He got completely wasted, clutching the hem of my shirt, his eyes red-rimmed.
“You want… me.”
And then I saw the other boy, the one hiding behind the column, his knuckles white around a golf club.
As someone who’d rather not end up on a true-crime podcast, I thought, Absolutely not.

1.
“I like you.”
I confessed to my childhood best friend, Greg.
He froze for a second, then burst out laughing as if I’d told the funniest joke in the world, his eyes crinkling at the corners.
“Is this a ‘try not to laugh’ challenge? Not bad.”
But when his gaze met mine, the laughter died on his lips. I watched his expression carefully, waiting for his answer, trying my best to convey the depth of my feelings.
“We’ve known each other since we were kids, and I’ve always had a crush on you,” I said, my voice earnest. “I just… wanted you to know.”
Greg fell silent, his dark eyes fixed on me. I looked down, my palms slick with sweat.
Then, I heard his teasing voice from above me. “Chloe, don’t mess with me.” He reached out and gently flicked my forehead. “I always thought of myself as your big brother.”
I looked up at him. The usual warmth in his eyes had been replaced by something dimmer, more serious. He lowered his voice.
“Chloe, I’m not as great as you think I am. You’ve had me around your whole life, and you don’t really have any other close guy friends. That’s why you think I’m special.”
I opened my mouth to argue. “But—”
He cut me off instantly. “Besides, you’re not really my type.”
His tone was light, almost joking, but the finality in it was unmistakable. He took a small step back, creating a little distance between us, and flashed a carefree smile.
“We’re better off as friends.”
A summer breeze blew past, drying the sweat on my skin and leaving me feeling cold. The walk home had never felt so long. I remember shamelessly crying the whole way.
Greg followed behind me. But he never once stepped forward to offer a word of comfort.

2.
When I got home, a text from him was waiting.
Greg: Chlo, I don't want to lie to you or lead you on.
Greg: We’re great as friends. I just can’t see us as anything more.
Greg and I grew up together. He was the cheerful type, always smiling, revealing two small canine teeth when he did. In elementary school, we were the two chubby kids. During jump rope, we were always the ones stuck holding the ends for everyone else. Two outcasts from different classes, we found each other. We did homework together, shared snacks.
But in middle school, he started to change. He joined the swim team and quickly shed all his baby fat. By the time we got to high school, the gap between us was a chasm. I was the slightly overweight girl with black-framed glasses who loved video games. Greg was the helpful class president, the handsome, tall campus heartthrob, the straight-A student.
His circle of friends exploded. The moment class was out, a crowd would form around him. Guys wanted him for basketball, calling him an all-star. Girls, like me, either had secret crushes on him or shipped him with someone else. Any task a teacher gave him, he’d rally a group of classmates and get it done in no time. Everyone trusted him.
I never saw him lose his temper. He was like the sun in everyone’s sky.
I thought we would drift apart, but he still treated me as his friend. Every day after school, he’d call out for me to walk home with him. He’d sling my heavy backpack over his shoulder as if it weighed nothing, then turn to me.
“Mocha fudge or a chocolate crunch?”
“Mocha fudge.”
We’d walk side-by-side, each with an ice cream bar. After we finished, we’d talk about our day, the setting sun chasing our shadows. I’d sneak glances at his handsome profile. He was like a sudden gust of wind, sending ripples across the calm lake of my heart.
Everyone in our class knew we were childhood friends. But no one ever teased us about it. It was like one of those teen movies: the handsome hero, the bubbly popular girl, and the nerdy, funny sidekick.
I managed to be two of those things—the nerdy, slightly chubby, funny sidekick.
Sigh.
Whatever. Time to boot up Baldur’s Gate.

3.
Getting rejected was so awkward. Thankfully, I’d confessed on a Friday, giving me the weekend to recover. Since Greg and I lived in the same apartment building, we often did homework together. But the cringe was too strong, so I didn’t reach out. For a whole week, I avoided him, bolting like a rabbit the second the final bell rang.
He must have sensed my distance. He texted me that night.
Greg: Chlo, you’re not seriously ignoring me because of that, are you…?
Greg: We’re still best friends, right?
Greg: Remember what I said about you not having enough guy friends? I have a good friend who’s a lot like you, loves gaming. Maybe you two should meet…?
With that, Greg sent me a contact card. The profile picture was a brooding anime character.
Greg: His name is Matthew. He’s in the class next door.
The boy I liked was setting me up with someone else, decisively crushing my last glimmer of hope. I thought for a moment, then typed back.
McNuggetLover: It's fine, you don't have to push people on me. Let's just be friends, like you said.
Greg: O(∩_∩)O You’ll always be my best friend, Chlo.
I figured Greg just wasn’t interested in dating. The sun, after all, belongs in the sky, not plucked down for one person. Friends it is.
We went back to normal. As class president, Greg was always busy. He’d usually ask me to help with things like the classroom bulletin board because I had neat handwriting.
One day after school, we stayed behind to work on it. He sketched while I stood on a stool, writing.
“Hey, Chlo,” he said, looking over. “Did you add Matthew yet?”
“Nah,” I said casually. “I think having one guy friend is enough. Don’t really need to expand my roster.”
After I said that, I glanced down. I saw Greg duck his head, a smile spreading across his lips. He was trying to suppress it, but his eyes gave him away, shining with a sweet, secret delight, like a kid who’d just snuck a piece of candy.

4.
What was so funny? I was the one who got rejected; I was allowed to be a little bitter.
I went back to writing on the board. One by one, our classmates filed out. But then Bianca, a girl from our class, stumbled past Greg, crashing hard into the stool I was standing on.
I lost my balance and tumbled to the floor. A sharp pain shot through my ankle, and I let out a muffled groan.
Greg immediately dropped his chalk and rushed to my side. But just as he was about to check on me, Bianca’s sobs filled the quiet classroom.
She was crumpled on the floor, tears streaming down her face. “Greg… my cramps… they’re killing me.” She looked at me, her eyes wide. “I didn’t mean to knock you over, Chloe. Please don’t be mad at me.”
If Greg was the king of the guys, Bianca was the queen of the girls. She was like the head cheerleader in a teen movie, complete with a little posse. She always wore glossy lipstick and would let her hair down the second the teacher wasn't looking. Tall and thin, she looked like a mini-influencer. To be honest, as a freshman, I was kind of scared of her.
Like I would ever dare be mad at her. Nerds like me steer clear of the popular kids.
“Greg, can you take me to the nurse’s office?” Bianca asked, looking up at him with shimmering eyes.
“I’ll take you,” he said grimly, then turned to me. “Chloe, could you finish up the board for me?”
I rubbed my swollen ankle and forced a smile. “My ankle’s twisted. I think I need to go to the clinic, too.”
Greg looked at me, a flicker of conflict in his amber eyes. “Chloe, can you manage…?”
Before he could finish, Bianca let out another pained moan, clutching her stomach. “It hurts… Greg, it hurts so much.”
“Bianca seems to be in worse shape,” Greg said, his brow furrowed with apology. He clearly meant he had to help the person who needed it more.
“Let me borrow your scooter keys,” he said, already reaching for my pencil case, where he knew I kept them. He’d given me the little lamb keychain attached to it.
He grabbed the keys, scooped Bianca up into his arms, and strode out of the classroom. At the doorway, he paused and looked back at me. His expression, usually so calm, was now intense and resolute.
“Don’t worry, Chloe. I’ll come back for you as soon as I get her to the clinic.”
The light pouring through the window silhouetted his strong frame. He looked me straight in the eye.
“Trust me.”

5.
The sky slowly darkened. The only sound in the silent classroom was the ticking of the clock. Then, the pitter-patter of rain began outside.
Two hours had passed. Greg hadn't come back. We weren’t allowed to have our phones in high school, so there was no way to contact him. But years of friendship made me stubbornly hold on to my trust in him. I was afraid that if I left, he’d come back and worry when he couldn’t find me.
The rain grew heavier, drumming against the roof of the bike shed outside. A clap of thunder echoed across the sky. The downpour had begun.
I stared out the window, replaying the image of Bianca’s arms wrapped around his neck. Replaying his words: You’re not my type. Replaying the sight of him carrying her, the tall, handsome boy and the petite, pretty girl. A classic pairing.
A cold certainty bloomed in my heart.
He wasn’t coming back.
When I tried to stand, a searing pain shot up from my ankle. I leaned against the wall, hobbling into the hallway. The sound of the rain was deafening. In the empty school, my shadow was my only companion.
“Do you… need help?”
A voice from the shadows startled me so badly I almost fell again.
A tall, thin boy peeked out from behind a pillar, his messy bangs nearly covering his eyes. He was clutching a long, black umbrella, his knuckles white from the force of his grip.
“I-I’m from the class next door…” he explained in a small voice. He kept his eyes on the floor, only darting a quick glance at me now and then. His eyes were unfairly beautiful, like obsidian veiled in mist.
“Thanks, but I’m okay,” I said, instinctively taking a step back. A torrential downpour, a beautiful boy with his eyes hidden, a black umbrella… it all felt a little supernatural.
The boy immediately shrank back behind the pillar, leaving only his pale, umbrella-gripping hand visible.
As I painstakingly made my way to the stairs, I heard a soft shuffling sound behind me. He was following me, maintaining a distance of about ten feet.
This was terrifying. I was about to tap into my primal survival instincts and make a run for it when I heard his voice again.
“Your foot looks hurt. Let me take you to the clinic…”
“I’m really a student here. My name is Matthew. I was just on my way back from the library.”
Matthew. That was the name of the friend Greg had wanted me to meet.
“And how are you going to help me?” I asked, stopping to look back at him.
His eyes lit up as if I’d just given him a prize. He quickly walked over, handed me the umbrella, then turned his back to me and bent down.
“I… I can carry you.”
I looked at his slender back and thought about my own 130-pound frame. Are you sure, dude? I might break you.
I asked him again if he was sure. As if to prove his strength, he suddenly turned and scooped me up into his arms.
And plunged headfirst into the pouring rain.

6.
When I got home, I turned on my phone. It buzzed with a few notifications from Greg.
Greg: Bianca’s a single-parent kid, her mom’s never around. I had to stay with her at the hospital. You go on home.
Greg: Be safe. I’ll bring you breakfast tomorrow to make it up to you. [Cute Cat Emoji]
I stared at the emoji for a moment, then closed the chat without replying. I found the contact card with the brooding anime profile picture and sent a friend request.
A second later, a notification popped up. He’d accepted immediately.

7.
The next day, Greg ran into the classroom carrying soy milk and fried pancakes. He made a beeline for my desk and placed the breakfast down, along with my scooter keys and their little lamb keychain.
He pressed his hands together and bowed repeatedly. “I’m so, so sorry, Chloe. It was an emergency yesterday.”
I kept my head down, organizing my books, ignoring him.
Greg raised his voice. “You can hit me a few times if it’ll make you feel better.” He grabbed my arm.
I yanked it away, and he let out a dramatic “Oof!” and fell over.
I flinched and looked up instinctively. He was sitting on the floor, propped up on his hands, with a random worksheet now covering his head. He looked up at me, a playful glint in his amber eyes.
But his smile quickly faded when he saw me pull a black metal lunchbox from my bag. It had Matthew’s name and class number printed on it.
I opened it. Inside were three plump sandwiches, each wrapper decorated with a cartoon penguin sticker. There was also a note from Matthew, written in beautiful handwriting.
You got caught in the rain yesterday, so you might be feeling weak. I made you breakfast. I wasn’t sure which flavor you’d like, so I made three.
I looked up at Greg and gave him an apologetic smile. “I already have breakfast, so I won’t be needing yours! Sorry.”
Greg ripped the worksheet off his head and nodded, a bright smile still plastered on his face. But I heard the soft, crisp sound of paper being crumpled tightly in his fist.
Wait a second—that was my literature worksheet. We had literature class next.
Dude, now I’m even more pissed at you.

8.
Because Greg had abandoned me, crumpled my worksheet, rejected my confession, and then tried to set me up with someone else, I was officially holding a grudge. I had no desire to talk to him.
Meanwhile, Matthew and I started getting to know each other. I discovered we had a ton in common. We both loved playing games on Steam. The summer break had just started, so we teamed up in Stardew Valley. We stayed up all night for a week straight, completely lost in the game. Who was Greg? I’d long forgotten.
Every morning, I’d wake up with a single thought: Time to hit the mines.
And Matthew would be there, quietly farming, fishing, and preparing food for my mining expeditions—Spicy Eel, Cheese, Crispy Bass—all neatly arranged in a storage chest, with a thoughtful stack of bombs and staircases right beside it.
His character would always be standing silently at the farm entrance, waiting for me to log on. Then a message would pop up: There’s stuff in the chest for you. You can go straight to the mines.
If I was late, he would just wait. Only when I appeared would he add, Caught an eel today. I can make you a meal.
I couldn’t help but ask him, “Matthew, why do you always have everything ready before you say anything?”
On the other end, he was silent for a few seconds. I could hear his soft breathing through the mic as he chose his words.
“…My family taught me to always present results when I speak.”
I learned that Matthew’s parents were both entrepreneurs, too busy to spend time with him. Their conversations were always short and efficient.
How are your recent grades?
Did you pass your piano exam?
Are the results from the coding competition out yet?
Every sentence had to be packed with information. Every exchange had to have a purpose. Over time, Matthew had developed a habit: he didn’t dare make small talk, didn’t dare chat idly, didn’t even dare to laugh without a reason.
As a girl from a normal family, I couldn’t understand it. My heart ached for him, and I instinctively tried to comfort him.
“Matthew, you can talk to me anytime. You can talk trash, talk nonsense. Every sentence doesn’t have to mean something or have a point. Friends can just talk, you know? It doesn’t always have to be useful.”
On the screen, Matthew’s character suddenly froze in the middle of the farm, as if someone had hit the pause button. After a long moment, a low chuckle came through my headphones. It was tentative, as if he was finally letting out a breath he’d been holding.
“Hehe…?”
I blinked. “What?”
“Haha,” he added, his voice as light as a feather brushing against my ear, the end of the sound lilting upwards with a touch of unpracticed joy.
I couldn’t help but smile. “What are you doing?”
“Talking nonsense,” he said, a hint of glee in his voice. “…Playing games with you is really fun.”
His voice was low and a little raspy, like a kitten finally daring to extend its claws to gently touch someone it trusts. It was clumsy and eager—and impossibly gentle.

9.
In Stardew Valley, there’s a festival called the Flower Dance where you can ask someone you like to dance with you. I had been so busy farming that none of the NPCs had ever agreed to dance with me. This time, when the festival arrived, the cheerful music filled the town square as the pixelated characters swayed in their festive outfits.
I ran my character around aimlessly while Matthew’s stood quietly to the side.
I thought he was antsy to get back to farming. “This game has so many festivals,” I said, trying to console him. “It’s such a waste of good farming time.”
I heard the soft click of his keyboard. After a moment, he suddenly asked, “Why don’t you ask Alex to dance…?”
“Huh?” I was taken aback. Alex was one of the jock-type characters in the game.
“I thought you would like his type,” Matthew said, his voice even but with an underlying tension. “I put a lot of gifts for him in the chest. You should have enough friendship points to invite him now.”
I blinked, and then it hit me—he thought I liked Alex. The realization left a strange, sour taste in my mouth.
I moved my character in front of his and clicked “Invite to Dance.”
“Matthew, I want to dance with you.”
The other end went silent. A few seconds later, his character slowly extended a hand and accepted. The two little pixel people spun clumsily in a circle, swaying to the music.
I smiled. “And for the record, I don’t like Alex.”
“Then… who do you like?” he asked softly.
“Sebastian,” I teased. “He’s cold and gloomy on the outside, but gentle on the inside. It’s super cute.”
—But I’m starting to like you a little.
The words lingered on my tongue, but I didn’t say them out loud.
That whole summer, we played Stardew Valley, Don’t Starve, we beat It Takes Two, we played League of Legends, Identity V, Valorant. I really, really love gaming.
But by the end of it all, I realized it wasn’t just the games that were fun.
It was us.
So, in the end, we returned to Stardew Valley. We sat side-by-side on the pier, fishing as the pixelated rain fell on the lake. Fishing in this game was so boring; I had no idea how Matthew did it for hours on end, just to make me food.
I chattered on beside him. “School’s about to start. I’ll have to study and won’t have time for games.”
He was quiet for a long time.
“Why aren’t you saying anything?” I asked.
His voice came through the headset, sounding a bit muffled. “After school starts… I’ll take good care of your farm.” He paused, then said, as if it took all his courage, “You can come visit me on the farm when you’re not busy.”
My phone buzzed. It was a picture.
My eyes widened. “Holy crap!!!”
It was a picture of Matthew cosplaying as Sebastian. A black wig partially covered his eyes, accentuating his high nose bridge and pale lips. He had perfectly captured the character’s gloomy, distant aura. He was in a professional studio, the light hitting his porcelain skin. He looked like he’d walked straight out of the game.
His voice came through, small and hesitant. “You can just… pretend you’re looking at Sebastian.”
“This is amazing! When did you take this?!” I was speechless.
His voice was nervous. “Last week… you said you liked Sebastian, so I…”
He didn’t finish, but I understood. He was afraid I’d ignore him once school started, so he did this to “keep me.”
I couldn’t help but smile. “We can have lunch together every day after school starts,” I reassured him.
“I can make you breakfast! Sandwiches, homemade burgers, rice balls, omelets, I can make anything!” he immediately replied, his words tumbling out in an uncharacteristic rush. “I can go home and make lunch, too. Whatever you want to eat…”
“Whoa, whoa, stop!” I cut him off. “You’re my friend, not my personal chef!”
He was silent for a moment, then I heard him whisper, so softly I almost missed it:
“…I want to be.”
Those three words, light as a feather, made the tips of my ears burn.
As a certified admirer of handsome faces, I zoomed in on the cosplay photo again and again. This face was made for cosplay.
A wicked idea popped into my head.
“Master!” I said, raising my voice dramatically. “Could you please, please cosplay as Scaramouche? Or Xiao? I’m begging you! This is very important to me!”
“…”
“Matthew?”
“If you insist…” he replied, his voice still a bit muffled, but I could have sworn I heard a faint chuckle.

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