The hum of the high-end PC was the only heartbeat in Harvey's room. Blue and purple LED lights washed over his face, casting a cold, artificial glow. He stared at the dashboard of his latest video, watching the view count climb.
Under normal circumstances, this would have been a moment of triumph. His English was flawless, his gameplay was peak, and the engagement was soaring. Yet, there was a persistent, hollow ache in his chest that no amount of digital praise could fill.
His eyes drifted to the chat history on his phone, a screen he had been avoiding for days.
The name "Nazma" sat at the top, a silent accusation.
He hadn't received a single notification from her since that final, jagged exchange.
Harvey leaned back, the leather of his gaming chair creaking in the silence.
He thought back to the group chat, to the moment he had decided to use his intellect as a weapon.
"She's so sensitive," he had typed, the words feeling like a victory at the time.
Now, those same words felt like a stain he couldn't scrub away.
He remembered the early days of their interaction, back when Nazma was just a curious girl in his DMs.
She had been so sincere, so relentlessly kind in a way that he found deeply confusing.
Harvey was used to the transactional nature of the internet.
People liked his content because they wanted tips, or because they wanted to be associated with his "brand."
However, Nazma was different.
She was the only one who had ever asked if he was eating well during his long streaming marathons.
She would send him small, encouraging notes when his voice sounded tired in a recording.
"Good luck today, Harv! You're working so hard," she had written once.
At the time, he had laughed it off as "cringe," and yet, he now realized it was the only genuine warmth he had ever known online.
He scrolled up, his thumb trembling slightly as he revisited her messages.
He saw her struggling with English grammar, her sentences clumsy but filled with effort.
She wasn't trying to show off; she was trying to reach him in his own language.
And what had he done?
He had mocked her for the very effort she made to be closer to him.
He had treated her kindness like a target, shooting it down with the precision of a trained sniper.
"I'm such a coward," Harvey whispered to the empty room.
The truth was, Nazma's vulnerability terrified him.
She was a mirror that showed him exactly what he was lacking: a heart that wasn't guarded by ego.
He had called her "mentally ill" because he couldn't handle someone being that honest about their feelings.
It was easier to label her as "broken" than to admit that he was the one who was empty.
He remembered her smile in the few photos she had shared, innocent, hopeful, and bright.
She was the kind of person who would give her last piece of bread to a stranger.
He knew this because he had once seen her mention helping a neighbor's kid with homework for free.
She had a goodness that felt ancient, something that didn't belong in the cynical world of 2020.
And he, in his arrogance, had tried to snuff out that light.
He opened the text box, his cursor blinking like a warning light.
I'm sorry. He deleted it immediately.
I didn't mean it. That felt like a lie; he had meant to hurt her in that moment of pride.
The silence from her side was deafening.
He realized now that Nazma wasn't just "another fan" or "another viewer."
She was the anchor he didn't know he needed.
Without her "likes" and her "good lucks," his success felt like a pile of dry leaves.
He thought about her going to AB College, a place where she would undoubtedly be brilliant.
He imagined her finding new friends, people who would actually appreciate her heart.
The thought made his stomach twist with a sudden, sharp jealousy.
What if she never looked back?
What if he was just a "bitter shadow" in her story now, a lesson she had to learn the hard way?
Harvey groaned, burying his face in his hands.
The silence of the room felt like it was pressing against his eardrums.
He missed the way she called him "Harv," as if they were actually close.
He missed the way she would get excited over the smallest things.
She was so pure-hearted that she probably still felt guilty for the fight, even though he was the villain.
That was the worst part knowing that Nazma was likely still blaming herself.
She was too good for the world he lived in.
He looked at his English textbooks on the shelf, the ones he used to flex his superiority.
They felt heavy and useless now.
Language was supposed to be a bridge, nonetheless, he had used it to build a wall.
He had won the debate, but he had lost the person.
The night outside his window was deep and unforgiving.
Harvey picked up his phone one last time, staring at her profile picture.
"Please don't be like me, Naz," he murmured.
"Don't let people like me change how kind you are."
He knew he didn't deserve a reply.
He knew he didn't deserve her forgiveness.
Still, for the first time in his life, Harvey wasn't thinking about his views or his ego.
He was just thinking about a girl who deserved a brotherly hand, and the boy who failed to give it.
He finally put the phone face down on the desk.
The "perfect" Harvey was gone, replaced by a boy who realized he was late to the truth.
The screen stayed dark.
The room stayed cold.
And the echo of Nazma's kindness was the only thing left to haunt him.
Harv gripped the edge of his desk, his knuckles turning white, his breathing shallow and uneven, his mind spinning with words he never said. He wanted to reach out, to bridge the gap he created, to fix the silence he caused. Everything felt wrong now.
The monitors flickered. The fans whirred. The night pressed in. He had everything he wanted but felt like he had nothing at all. He looked at the empty glass of water on his desk and felt the dryness in his own throat.
He had spent years perfecting his persona, yet he felt like a stranger to himself. The numbers on the screen didn't matter. The comments from strangers didn't matter. He just wanted to hear her voice again.
He remembered her typing style, her frequent use of ellipses, her gentle way of correcting him, her soft-spoken humor that caught him off guard. She never held a grudge, even when he was being difficult.
She always found a reason to stay.
Now she was gone. The space she occupied was filled with a cold, biting regret. He wondered if she was sleeping, or if she was staring at her own ceiling, or if she was already forgetting him.
He hoped she wasn't forgetting him. That was a terrifying thought. He wanted to be a part of her world, even if it was just as a mistake she once made.
He closed his eyes and saw her face again. It was a memory from a video call, grainy and pixelated, but her eyes were so clear. They were filled with a curiosity that he had mistaken for weakness.
"I'm sorry, Naz," he whispered again. The words were heavy. They didn't fly. They just sank to the floor of his room.
He stood up and walked to the window. The streetlights below were blurred by a thin mist. The world was quiet, but his head was a storm. He had to do better.
He had to find a way to apologize. Not just a text, not just a comment, but a real way to show her he understood. He didn't know if she would ever listen, yet he had to try.
The realization made his chest feel a little less tight. It was a small goal, a tiny spark in the dark. He sat back down and began to write, not for the fans, but for himself.
He wrote about the pressure of the internet. He wrote about the fear of being seen. He wrote about the girl who saw him anyway. He didn't use any fancy English. He just used the truth.
It wasn't perfect, but it was honest. And for Harvey, that was the hardest thing he had ever written. He finished the last line and felt a tear hit the keyboard.
"Goodbye, Harvey the Vlogger," he said to the mirror. "Hello, Harvey."
He looked at the time. It was late. He went to bed, but for the first time in months, he didn't check his analytics. He just closed his eyes and thought of the name Nazma.
Harvey's room was neatly arranged with high-quality modern furniture and polished wooden floors. A large window muffled the roar of the highway below while he sat in his brand-name chair, staring at a curved monitor.
The air conditioner hissed softly, blowing a cool breeze that suddenly felt suffocating. All the comfortable amenities, from the branded shoes to the latest gadgets, now felt meaningless.
They were merely reminders of how quiet life was without the sincere presence of the girl he once looked down upon.