Page 61 of Glitched Play

I am not writing this because I want you to feel obligated to answer. I do not want obligation from you. I want the truth, even if the truth is that this mattered more to me than it did to you. If you are done, tell me. If you are tired, tell me that too. If you need silence, I can respect silence, but I would rather not be left trying to decode it.

I miss you. That is not efficient or logical or useful, but it is accurate.

—Glitch

I read the last line twice, then a third time, like the words might rearrange themselves into something easier to hold. I miss you. Three words, plain and honest and so unlike the careful games we used to play with each other that they make my throat ache.

Why couldn’t I ever finish the letter? I had written openings. Dozens of them. Apologies, excuses, half-truths dressed up as kindness. But every version felt like a lie because none of them could explain the real thing—that I was scared if I answered, I’d have to admit how much I still cared, and if I said goodbye, I’d have to accept that ten years could end with paper folded into a drawer.

And then another thought lands harder than all the rest. What did it do to him, sending this and getting nothing back? No final letter. No explanation. No clean ending. Just silence from the girl who used to fill every empty space with words.

For me, I wanted more than hiding behind screens. So maybe I just need to buckle up and write him that letter. Tomorrow. Maybe tomorrow.

I get ready slowly, not because I need the time. But courage. I need courage to wear that dress.

The gown feels different once my hair is styled and my makeup is done. Less like fabric. More like armor. Noelle was right about the color; it makes my eyes look brighter, my hair look intentional, and my curves look like they belong exactly where they are. I turn once in front of the mirror and almost don't recognize myself. Some people are self conscious about being a little thick or plus size but not me. I am who I am.

Then my phone buzzes.

Chase: At the event with Tyler. Fancy enough to be uncomfortable. Send help.

I smile.

By the time I meet them in the lobby, Tyler is wearing a tux like he was born to be photographed in one, and Chase looks handsome in a relaxed, easy way that makes three women near the entrance take a second glance. He sees me and goes completely still.

"Maci," he says. "Wow."

Tyler groans. "Do not say wow to my sister like that."

Chase lifts both hands. "Respectful wow."

"Still hate it."

I laugh, and some of my nerves loosen.

The gala is being held in one of the grand event spaces connected to the arena, but calling it an event space feels insulting. The ballroom glows with soft gold light and massive screens displaying the SGI Foundation logo. Tables are dressed in black linens with emerald accents, and beyond the cocktail area, adaptive gaming stations line one side of the room. Kids and families move between them with volunteers, trying controllers with raised buttons, gloves with haptic feedback, headsets designed for spatial audio, and game demos built around sound, touch, and guided narration.

For a moment, I forget about the dress.

I forget about Chase beside me.

I forget about proving myself.

Because this—this is gaming the way I always wished people understood it.

Not wasting time.

Not hiding from the real world.

Not kids staring at screens because they have nothing better to do.

Connection.

Access.

Belonging.

A little boy wearing dark glasses laughs as a controller vibrates in his hands and the headset tells him where to move. His mother covers her mouth, eyes filling with tears. A volunteer explains how the navigation system works, but the boy isn't listening anymore. He's playing.