Chapter 4: Breakup Rituals and Regret

Jack immediately messaged her on Facebook Messenger to scold her.

His words popped up like angry fireworks—classic dude move, sliding into the DMs to defend his friend instead of his girlfriend.

[Bailey just isn’t good at the game, why’d you have to roast her?]

Rachel sneered, called him a jerk, and showed me the chat.

She held up her phone with the kind of disgust you reserve for a spoiled carton of milk. We both rolled our eyes.

I got fired up—finally my chance to shine!

This was the green light I’d been waiting for. My inner hype woman was ready to go full cheerleader.

I slammed the table, "Break up! If we don’t break up, we’re not American!"

We laughed, a little too loud. That’s how American girls handle drama—by making it louder and more dramatic.

We swapped phones, went online, and unpaired our duo status.

It felt like a breakup ritual: two clicks, one deep breath, a flurry of emoji, and we were officially free agents again.

Then deleted them from our friends lists, high-fived, and completely cut off the dog guys.

The sound of our hands meeting echoed in my room, the digital equivalent of burning old love letters. There was relief, even a sense of victory.

I even used her account to roast Jack for a full ten minutes.

It was petty, sure, but sometimes you just need to let it out. I unloaded every line I’d ever saved for a bad teammate.

But not five minutes after deleting, Rachel started to feel regretful.

I could tell by the way she kept glancing at her phone, tapping the screen as if expecting an apology to materialize.

"Even though Jack always ignores me, his skills are actually pretty good."

Her voice was soft, almost wistful—like she was remembering the one good school dance she’d had.

I poured cold water on her: "He ditches you in fights and sides with other girls against you."

Sometimes you need your best friend to keep it real. I wasn’t about to let her romanticize someone who left her behind in a 2v5.

Rachel: "But he’s a top-ranked Jack, it’s pretty cool to show off."

That flex, though. In the States, having a top-ranked partner is the gamer’s version of driving a shiny new car to prom.

"He ditches you in fights and sides with other girls against you."

Rachel: "..."

She was silent, lips pressed tight. I knew she was replaying every lost fight in her head.

"He ditches you..."

She snapped, cutting me off.

She flung a pillow at me, laughing through her frustration. “Okay, okay, I get it!”

"Alright, alright, I’m not getting back with him! Stop saying it!"

She was half-exasperated, half-grateful. That’s what best friends are for—reminding you of your worth, even when your heart tries to forget.

Worried she’d get lovesick and sneakily contact Jack, I insisted on sleeping over to supervise her.

We crashed on her living room floor, surrounded by takeout boxes and the glow of the TV, old episodes of Friends playing in the background. American sleepovers are part therapy, part stakeout.

But then my own phone started buzzing.

The notifications lit up my screen, one after another. It was like my phone knew I needed a distraction from Rachel’s heartbreak.

Message after message—all friend requests from Will Hayes.

His persistence was almost sweet, but mostly alarming. I watched my screen light up like the Vegas strip.

[What’s going on?]

[Why did you delete me?]

[Why break up? Are you mad? Is it because of Sophie?]

[No way, you broke up with me over my brother’s childhood friend?]

[I can explain.]

[Sam, talk to me.]

His messages piled up, each more frantic than the last. My thumb hovered over the reply button, but loyalty—and a little bit of pride—kept me from answering.

I steeled myself and ignored him.

Sorry, ex-boyfriend.

It was like blocking someone on Instagram—you tell yourself it’s for the best, but your finger hesitates anyway.

Even though your voice is nice, your gameplay is good, you might even be handsome, and you’re super generous—

A small part of me wondered what he looked like outside the game. Maybe he was the type who wore flannel shirts and had a cute smile, or maybe he was just a voice on the internet, forever a mystery.

In less than half a month of being paired, you sent me hundreds just for skins…

I glanced at my transaction history and felt a pang of guilt, wondering if I was now some kind of digital gold digger.

Wait, at that, I sat up in bed and googled:

I opened my browser, heart pounding, typing like a criminal hiding evidence.

[Can you get sued for accepting money transfers?]

[How many years in jail for taking money?]

[...]

[How to secretly contact your ex without your best friend finding out?]

I didn’t find any useful advice—Google only made me more paranoid. I was two seconds away from texting my mom for legal advice, but decided even she didn’t need to know about my questionable e-boyfriend earnings.

Didn’t find a good answer. Sighing, I flopped back into bed.

The pillowcase smelled like lavender detergent. Rachel was already snoring, arm thrown over her head like she’d just finished a marathon.

Rachel grumbled, "If you don’t sleep, I’ll kick you out."

She said it with love, but her foot was dangerously close to my side.

Regretfully, I wrapped myself tighter in the blanket.

Sorry, ex-boyfriend. From now on, we’ll only meet in dreams.

The night was quiet except for the hum of the air conditioning. Somewhere, a dog barked outside. I stared at the ceiling, willing myself to sleep.

Maybe it’s true that what you think about during the day, you dream about at night.

I actually dreamed about Will Hayes—he had a handsome face, and I was being super bold with him.

His laugh was soft, his hands warm. In the dream, we were in Central Park on a sunny day, tossing a frisbee, his laugh echoing over the sound of distant traffic. For once, there was no lag, no drama—just us.

His shirt was half off, and I was about to touch his abs—

Suddenly, Rachel woke me up.

She shook my shoulder, face still half-buried in her pillow. “You look like you’re about to drool, Sam.”

Her eyes weren’t even open yet, but she started mumbling, "Ugh, nightmare."

She always woke up cranky. I smothered a laugh, grateful for the distraction.

"I dreamed Jack found me, tied me up in a dark room, and started some forced romance plot."

I blinked, taken aback. Only Rachel would turn heartbreak into a horror story.

I woke up instantly, feigning jealousy.

I stuck out my tongue. “Lucky you! At least you got some action in your dream.”

You little brat, you got luckier than me.

I didn’t even get to touch Will’s abs.

We both dissolved into laughter, the awkwardness melting away. It felt like we were twelve again, gossiping at a sleepover.

With all this drama, I completely forgot about Will’s message—

[Wait, I’ll give you a big present in person.]

I frowned at my phone. A chill ran down my spine. What did that even mean?