Afterimage Rules
Aleem woke up with the afterimage of her face still behind his eyelids.
Not the polished stage version.
Not the Mina that lived in music videos with perfect lighting and choreographed grace.
The Mina who had appeared on his screen in monitor glow–tired eyes, unguarded skin, a softness that felt almost startling because it was not designed for consumption.
He lay still for a moment, staring at the ceiling, listening to the quiet of morning settle into the house.
He tried to inventory himself the way he did everything else.
Shock: present.
Awe: present.
Fear: present.
Guilt: sharp.
Affection: steady.
His feelings did not fit neatly into categories.
That was the problem.
He rose, washed up, prayed, ate breakfast with his parents, answered questions about his day with the same composed voice he always used. His mother asked if he slept well.
“Yes,” he said.
It was a lie.
His father commented about the news on TV.
Aleem nodded and made the right sounds of agreement.
His mind was somewhere else.
It was replaying the moment she had asked him to promise he would not say love.
It was replaying the moment her camera went black.
It was replaying the fear in her eyes when she asked if he knew her.
He carried those images through the day like glass.
At work, he forced himself to focus. He spoke in meetings. He responded to emails. He optimized a process flow with his usual competence. He even joked lightly with a colleague.
But underneath, a question sat like a stone.
What am I now?
A fan who got lucky.
A stranger who had been trusted.
A danger.
When lunchtime arrived, he escaped to a quieter corner of the pantry and checked Discord.
Sharon was offline.
His chest tightened.
He did not message her.
Rule Two.
No guilt.
No interrogations.
If she disappeared, he would not chase her into the parts of her life he wasn’t allowed to see.
But he could not pretend the silence did not scare him.
Not because he didn’t trust her.
Because he understood what a reveal like that cost.
She had placed herself in his hands.
She had shown him the face the world treated like a product.
And then she had gone quiet.
Maybe she was sleeping.
Maybe she was working.
Maybe she was regretting it.
Aleem’s fingers tightened around his phone.
He put it back down.
He forced himself to breathe.
He returned to work.
By evening, he felt wrung out–not by tasks, but by restraint.
He came home, ate dinner, listened to his mother talk about something small and domestic. The normalcy felt almost cruel.
Later, when his parents were asleep, he returned to his room.
He did not open Minecraft immediately.
He opened Discord.
Sharon was online.
The green dot appeared beside her name like a tiny heartbeat.
Aleem’s chest tightened.
He did not call.
He typed instead, careful.
Aleem: Hi. I hope you’re okay. No rush to reply.
He stared at the message, then added one more line.
Aleem: Thank you for trusting me last night.
He stopped himself from adding anything else.
He waited.
Three dots appeared.
Then disappeared.
Then:
Sharon: hi
A pause.
Sharon: i’m sorry i left quickly
Aleem exhaled.
He typed.
Aleem: You don’t have to apologize. You followed your rule. I’m glad you did.
Three dots.
Sharon: i was scared
Aleem’s throat tightened.
Aleem: I understand. Are you safe now?
A pause.
Sharon: yes
Then:
Sharon: can we talk?
Aleem’s pulse jumped.
Aleem: Yes. Call me when you’re ready.
The call came almost immediately.
Aleem accepted.
Her voice arrived, quieter than usual.
“Hi,” Sharon said.
“Hi,” Aleem replied. “Are you okay?”
A small exhale.
“I’m… embarrassed,” Sharon admitted.
Aleem blinked.
“Why?” he asked gently.
“Because you saw me,” Sharon whispered. “And you knew.”
Aleem swallowed.
“I did,” he said softly. “But I want you to know something.”
Sharon was silent.
Aleem continued carefully.
“I’m grateful you told me,” he said. “But you don’t owe me any explanation for why you hid it.”
Sharon’s breath came out slow.
“You’re not angry?” she asked, cautious.
Aleem frowned.
“Why would I be angry?” he asked.
“Some people get angry,” Sharon whispered. “They say I tricked them.”
Aleem’s chest tightened.
“I’m not angry,” he said firmly but gently. “You didn’t trick me. You protected yourself.”
A long pause.
Then Sharon exhaled.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
Aleem’s throat tightened.
“Sharon,” he said softly.
Her breath caught.
“Yes?”
“I want to ask you something,” Aleem said. “And you can say no.”
Sharon hesitated.
“Okay,” she said.
Aleem inhaled.
“Do you want me to… pretend I don’t know?” he asked.
Silence.
Sharon’s voice returned, small.
“I don’t know,” she admitted. “I don’t want you to see me as Mina all the time. But I also don’t want you to lie.”
Aleem nodded even though she couldn’t see.
“Okay,” he said. “Then we do this: in our world, you’re Sharon. If you want to talk about Mina, you will tell me. If you don’t, I won’t bring it up.”
Sharon’s breath came out slow.
“That sounds… safe,” she whispered.
Aleem swallowed.
“That’s what I want,” he said.
Sharon went quiet.
Then she said softly, “Aleem.”
“Yes?”
“Are you still… a fan?” she asked.
Aleem’s chest tightened.
He did not want to lie.
He also did not want to hurt her.
So he chose a careful truth.
“I admired you,” he said. “Your performances. Your discipline. The way you stayed calm. You were… comfort, from a distance.”
Sharon was silent.
Aleem continued.
“But the fan part of me is not what I want to bring into this,” he said quietly. “I don’t want to collect you. I don’t want to own a moment. I don’t want to turn you into a story for my friends. I want to protect what we have.”
Sharon exhaled shakily.
“How?” she whispered.
Aleem’s pulse steadied.
“By setting rules,” he said.
Sharon was quiet.
“Afterimage rules,” he added, then realized how strange it sounded.
Sharon let out a small breath that might have been a laugh.
“Afterimage rules?” she repeated.
Aleem swallowed.
“Yes,” he said. “Because now that I’ve seen you, I can’t unsee it. And I don’t want that to change how I behave.”
Sharon’s voice softened.
“Okay,” she whispered. “Tell me.”
Aleem took a breath.
“Rule one,” he said. “Your image stays private. No screenshots, no recordings. That stands forever.”
Sharon’s breath came out slow.
“Yes,” she said.
“Rule two,” Aleem continued, “no fan behavior in our calls. No asking for selfies. No talking about charts, schedules, rumors. If you want to talk about your work, you decide. I won’t prompt you.”
Sharon was quiet.
Then she whispered, “That’s… good.”
“Rule three,” Aleem said, “if I feel my fan side taking over, I tell you. Not to burden you, but to keep honesty. And I step back if needed.”
Sharon’s voice tightened.
“Step back?”
Aleem swallowed.
“If it becomes unsafe for you,” he clarified. “Or if I become someone you can’t breathe around.”
Sharon exhaled.
“Okay,” she whispered.
“Rule four,” Aleem continued gently, “we keep our private world as our main space. The public server stays untouched. No more building there. No more logging in there. If someone recognizes your style, it dies there.”
Sharon’s breath caught.
“You think someone can recognize me from Minecraft?” she asked.
Aleem’s voice stayed steady.
“Maybe not,” he admitted. “But we don’t gamble. It’s not worth it.”
A pause.
Then Sharon whispered, “Okay.”
Aleem’s chest loosened slightly.
“Rule five,” he said softly, “you don’t have to carry my feelings. I like you. I will keep liking you quietly. But you don’t owe me big words. Not love. Not forever. Just honesty.”
Sharon’s breathing sounded uneven.
“Aleem…”
“Yes?”
“That rule…” Sharon whispered. “It makes me want to cry.”
Aleem’s throat tightened.
“You don’t have to cry,” he said softly.
“I know,” Sharon replied. “But… it’s gentle.”
Gentle.
Aleem’s chest ached.
“I want to be gentle with you,” he said.
There was a quiet pause.
Then Sharon asked, very quietly, “Do you regret it?”
Aleem’s pulse jumped.
“Regret what?”
“Knowing,” Sharon whispered. “Seeing me.”
Aleem swallowed.
“No,” he said firmly. “I don’t regret it.”
Sharon’s voice was small.
“Even if it makes your life harder?”
Aleem stared at his desk.
His life harder.
He thought about secrecy. About fear. About the sheer impossibility of loving someone the world would not allow to be ordinary.
He answered honestly.
“It might make it harder,” he admitted. “But it also makes it real. And I want real.”
Sharon’s breath trembled.
“Real,” she repeated.
Aleem softened his voice.
“You’re still Sharon to me,” he said.
Sharon went quiet.
Then, faintly, she laughed.
“Say it,” she whispered.
Aleem’s chest tightened.
“Sharon,” he said.
Her breath caught.
“Again,” she whispered.
“Sharon,” Aleem repeated.
A quiet exhale.
Sharon’s voice softened.
“Okay,” she murmured. “Then… I want to keep trying.”
Aleem’s throat tightened.
“Me too,” he said.
They logged into Minecraft together.
In the private world, the lantern gate glowed warmly, the courtyard pond reflected the night sky, and the quiet room sat behind the bookshelf door like a promise.
Sharon’s avatar appeared beside him on the stone path.
They didn’t rush into building.
They walked into the quiet room first.
In the lantern light, Sharon stood still.
“I like this room,” she said quietly through the headset.
Aleem smiled faintly.
“That’s why it exists,” he replied.
Sharon’s voice softened.
“Can I stay here for a while?” she asked.
“Of course,” Aleem said.
They stayed.
Not speaking much.
Just existing.
The quiet between them felt different after the reveal.
More careful.
More precious.
Less naïve.
After a while, Sharon spoke.
“Aleem,” she said softly.
“Yes?”
“If we continue,” she whispered, “I need you to understand something.”
Aleem’s chest tightened.
“Okay,” he replied gently.
“My life… is not normal,” Sharon said. “You know that now. It means I disappear sometimes. It means I can’t always reply. It means I may sound cold when I’m actually just… exhausted.”
Aleem listened.
“I understand,” he said.
Sharon’s voice sharpened slightly.
“Do you?” she asked. “Or are you just saying that?”
Aleem swallowed.
“I don’t fully understand,” he admitted. “But I can respect it. I can adjust. I can not demand what you can’t give.”
A pause.
Then Sharon exhaled.
“Okay,” she whispered. “That’s enough.”
Aleem’s chest loosened.
He wanted to ask her about Twice.
About her schedule.
About her exhaustion.
He didn’t.
He kept the rule.
No fan behavior.
He asked instead, “Did you eat today?”
Sharon laughed softly.
“Yes,” she said. “I ate.”
Aleem exhaled.
“Good,” he replied.
Sharon’s voice warmed.
“You sound relieved,” she teased.
“I am,” Aleem admitted.
Sharon hummed.
“You really are like my mother sometimes,” she said.
Aleem smiled.
“Your mother is wise,” he replied.
Sharon’s laugh softened.
“Yes,” she agreed. “She is.”
The conversation drifted into safer things.
Food.
Weather.
Minecraft builds.
Aleem taught her the difference between redstone dust and redstone blocks, between a lever and a button.
Sharon teased him for describing mechanisms like he was teaching a class.
“I’m just explaining,” Aleem defended.
“You’re lecturing,” Sharon corrected.
Aleem snorted quietly.
“That’s not lecturing,” he said.
Sharon laughed.
“You even sound like you’re offended,” she teased.
“I am mildly offended,” Aleem replied.
Sharon’s laugh warmed.
“Mildly,” she repeated, amused. “You choose such precise words.”
“I’m precise,” Aleem said.
“Yes,” Sharon agreed softly. “You are.”
A quiet pause.
Then Sharon asked, careful, “Do you still want to meet me?”
Aleem’s pulse jumped.
“In real life?” he asked.
Sharon exhaled.
“Yes,” she whispered. “Not now. But… one day.”
Aleem stared at the lantern light.
“One day,” he echoed.
Sharon’s voice softened.
“One day,” she repeated.
Aleem swallowed.
“Yes,” he said. “I want to meet you. If it’s safe. If you want it. If it doesn’t hurt you.”
Sharon’s breath trembled.
“Okay,” she whispered.
Then, almost shy, she added, “But you cannot ‘wah’ when you see me.”
Aleem froze.
Then he laughed softly.
“I can’t promise that,” he admitted.
Sharon laughed too.
“Then you can ‘wah’ quietly,” she conceded.
Aleem’s chest warmed.
“I’ll be quiet,” he promised.
Sharon hummed.
“Cheoncheonhi,” she murmured.
Aleem smiled.
“Cheoncheonhi,” he echoed.
When Sharon finally left the call that night, it was gentler than the night before.
No sudden black screen.
No sharp apology.
Just a soft, “I should sleep,” and a quiet “Good night,” and her camera staying off because tonight did not need it.
Aleem let her go without asking questions.
When the call ended, he sat in the quiet room alone.
Lantern light flickered.
The painting looked like escape.
And the new sign he had placed the night before–STAY HUMAN HERE–stared back at him like a vow.
He thought about what he had learned.
Not that Sharon was Mina.
But that Mina–this world-famous figure–still needed a quiet room, still needed rules, still needed permission to be human.
He thought about his own role.
Not savior.
Not fan.
Not owner.
Just… someone who stayed without taking.
He exhaled slowly.
Tomorrow would come.
The world would demand things from her.
He would not be able to change that.
But he could keep their afterimage rules.
He could keep their quiet.
He could keep building a home that did not ask for more than she could give.
Aleem closed Minecraft.
He closed Discord.
In the dark of his room, he whispered one phrase in Malay, softly, like it was a reminder to himself.
“Biar perlahan.” (bee-ar per-lah-han) – “Let it be slow.”
Cheoncheonhi.
Slowly.
Because this was no longer a story he could treat lightly.
It was real.
And it would only survive if he learned how to hold it without squeezing.