“Personal experience,” I say simply. “I've had some practice with losing things that mattered. Games let us practice emotions safely. I wanted to make a space where failure felt... permissive. Where it's okay to not be okay.”
More hands. A student asks about the technical implementation. Someone else wants to know about the art style choices. I'm in the zone now, the nervousness replaced by passion for the work.
Then, from the middle of the audience, a familiar voice—Marcus from Nebula, Professor Long's brother.
“The choice mechanism at the end is revolutionary. It solves a problem we've been discussing in the industry for years—how to give players agency without sacrificing narrative integrity. How did you come up with that solution?”
I take a breath, scanning the audience. I swear for a moment my heart stops beating.
In the fifth row, I spot her—Piper, tucked into an aisle seat, wearing her oversized UMS hoodie.
She's here.
She came.
31
PIPER
I'm practically running across campus, my coffee-stained notes from my Machine Learning final still crumpled in my bag. The Senior Showcase started twenty minutes ago, and I promised myself I wouldn't go.
I've been to every showcase since freshman year—it's tradition, free food, plus you get to see what you'll be capable of creating someday. That's what I told Riya when she asked why I was going. Just keeping up tradition. Nothing to do with Ethan being fourth on the presentation list.
But who am I kidding? I memorized the schedule the moment it was posted.
The auditorium doors are closed when I arrive, the universal sign for “presentation in progress.” Through the small window, I can see someone on stage with what looks like a VR headset. Whale sounds leak through the doors.
Not Ethan yet. Thank God.
I slip inside as quietly as possible, finding an aisle seat in the fifth row just as Professor Long takes the mic.
He announces Ethan and my heart stops.
He walks onto the stage looking unfairly good in a navybutton-down I've never seen him wear. His hands shake slightly as he sets up his laptop, and something in my chest twists knowing he's nervous. I want to tell him he's brilliant, that his game is revolutionary, that he has nothing to worry about.
But I lost that right when I kept secrets.
“Hi, everyone. I'm Ethan, and I'd like to tell you a story about losing everything.”
The next fifteen minutes are torture and transcendence combined. Watching him command that stage, seeing the audience lean in as he explains his vision, the gasps when the staff breaks—it's like watching someone step into exactly who they're meant to be.
But then he starts talking about the beta feedback. My feedback.
“A beta tester told me something that changed everything. They said 'shock doesn't equal satisfaction.'“
Those are my words. My exact words from the review that destroyed everything between us.
“They were absolutely right. I'd confused making players feel something with making them feel something meaningful.”
He's not angry. He's... grateful?
The presentation continues, showing the choice mechanism I inspired, the three paths to destruction that somehow feel like hope. The audience is captivated. Someone in the front row—definitely an industry person—is taking rapid notes.
Then comes then in the Q&A someone asks.
“The choice mechanism at the end is revolutionary. It solves a problem we've been discussing in the industry for years—how to give players agency without sacrificing narrative integrity. How did you come up with that solution?”
“Honest feedback,” Ethan says, and suddenly he's lookingdirectly at me. “I had a friend—a brilliant, analytical friend—who played my first version and told me exactly what was wrong with it.”
