Discord Add
Aleem’s world did not change after a confession.
Not visibly.
The morning still arrived on time. The MRT still carried people in obedient lines. Work still demanded his attention with the same measured urgency. His mother still asked if he had eaten. His phone still buzzed with reminders and polite obligations.
But something in him had shifted its center.
He noticed it in small ways: how he found himself listening for her cadence in the rhythm of other voices, how the quiet between tasks felt less like relief and more like space he wanted to fill with one specific sound.
He didn’t tell himself it was love.
Love was a word that carried consequence.
He told himself it was simply… affection.
A careful kind.
A complicated kind.
On his commute, he replayed the moment she had said it back.
I like you too.
The sentence had been soft, but it had landed with undeniable weight. It kept returning to him like a lantern glow you could still see after you turned away.
In the afternoon, his mind drifted and he caught himself smiling at nothing.
He stopped.
He made his face neutral.
He resumed being normal.
But when night finally arrived and he returned to his room, the first thing he did was open Discord.
Sharon’s name sat in the list.
Offline.
He stared at it anyway.
He had promised her privacy. He had promised her time. He did not want to become the kind of person who hovered like a question mark.
So he made a decision.
He sent a single message.
Aleem: Good evening. I hope you’re resting. No rush–just letting you know I’m around.
He read it twice.
He resisted the urge to add anything else.
Then he closed Discord and opened Minecraft.
If he waited in the game, it would feel less like waiting in real life.
The world loaded into their courtyard–pond, bench, flowers, lantern gate. The sign by the water still read TAKE YOUR TIME, and the words looked more like her now than him.
He walked into the shelter and opened the quiet room behind the bookshelf.
He stood there and listened.
Not to the game–there was only ambient silence.
To his own breathing.
To the faint hum of his computer.
To the absence that made the room feel like a held place.
After a few minutes, Discord chimed.
His chest tightened.
He clicked.
Sharon: hi
Then, a second message.
Sharon: sorry. i was asleep
Aleem exhaled slowly.
He typed, keeping his English steady.
Aleem: Don’t apologize. I’m glad you rested. How are you feeling now?
Three dots appeared.
Sharon: better… still tired but better
Aleem’s fingers hovered.
He could ask to call.
He could also let her ease in.
He chose gentle.
Aleem: I’m happy to hear that. Do you want to play for a while? We can talk if you feel like it.
Her reply came almost immediately.
Sharon: yes. can we call?
The directness made his pulse jump.
Aleem: Yes.
The incoming call appeared.
Aleem accepted.
Her voice arrived like warmth.
“Hi,” Sharon said.
“Hi,” Aleem replied, softer than he intended. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
A small laugh.
“You always check,” she said.
“Because I mean it,” Aleem replied.
There was a pause.
Then Sharon said, quieter, “Me too.”
Aleem’s hand tightened on the mouse.
He stared at the pixel lantern light and forced himself to breathe.
“Are you in the game?” he asked.
“I’m logging in,” Sharon replied.
A few seconds later, her avatar appeared at the lantern gate.
Aleem’s chest eased.
It was becoming a ritual: her arrival, the way she paused as if appreciating the light, the way she walked in with a cautious sort of belonging.
“Welcome back,” Aleem said.
Sharon laughed softly.
“You sound like the sign,” she teased.
“I learned from you,” Aleem said.
Sharon’s voice warmed.
“Then you are learning well,” she replied.
They walked toward the shelter together.
Aleem had planned to mine, to build, to keep the night anchored to something practical.
But tonight, the practical felt secondary.
Tonight, there was something unspoken between them, something they both knew they had touched yesterday on the ridge.
Sharon broke the silence first.
“Aleem,” she said.
“Yes?”
“I keep thinking about what you said,” she admitted.
Aleem’s pulse steadied.
“What part?” he asked carefully.
“All of it,” Sharon replied. “But especially… that you don’t expect anything.”
Aleem swallowed.
“I meant it,” he said.
Sharon’s voice went quieter.
“I don’t want to disappoint you,” she confessed.
Aleem stopped moving.
In the game, his avatar stood in front of the quiet room door.
In real life, his shoulders tightened.
“You won’t,” he said gently. “You can’t disappoint me by being honest.”
Sharon exhaled.
“That sounds like you prepared the sentence,” she murmured.
Aleem smiled, a little embarrassed.
“I didn’t,” he admitted. “But I should have. I tend to… rehearse difficult conversations.”
Sharon laughed softly.
“That’s very you,” she said.
Aleem’s chest warmed.
“Is that a good thing?” he asked.
“It is,” Sharon replied without hesitation. “Because it means you care about not hurting people.”
Aleem stared at the bookshelf.
He thought about how hard he’d tried not to hurt her.
Not to push.
Not to pry.
Not to become something heavy in her already crowded life.
“Sharon,” he said.
“Mm?”
“I want to talk about boundaries,” Aleem said.
There was a pause.
Sharon’s voice sharpened slightly with caution.
“Boundaries?”
“Yes,” Aleem said. “Not because I want to restrict you. Because I want you to feel safe.”
Sharon was quiet.
Then she asked, carefully, “What kind of boundaries?”
Aleem inhaled.
“Things like,” he began, choosing each word deliberately, “how we talk, where we play, what information we share. I don’t want you to feel pressured to reveal anything you don’t want to. And I don’t want either of us to do something that could… cause trouble.”
Sharon exhaled.
“You sound like Ivan,” she said.
Aleem blinked.
“You know Ivan?”
Sharon laughed softly.
“No,” she said. “I mean… you sound like a cautious friend. Like someone who has a plan.”
Aleem smiled faintly.
“I’m trying to be responsible,” he said.
Sharon’s voice softened.
“I like that,” she admitted.
Aleem swallowed.
“Okay,” he said. “First boundary: no screenshots.”
Sharon went still.
Then she said, quietly, “Yes.”
“Second boundary,” Aleem continued, “no recording. No voice recording. No screen recording.”
Sharon’s breath came out slow.
“Yes,” she repeated.
Aleem’s throat tightened.
He didn’t know why those rules mattered so much.
But he could feel the shape of her fear.
“Third,” Aleem said gently, “we keep the server details private. No mentioning it in public spaces. No sharing coordinates with anyone.”
Sharon exhaled again.
“Yes,” she said. “That’s important.”
Aleem swallowed.
“Do you want to play in a private world instead?” he offered. “A realm. Or a whitelisted server. Only you and me.”
Sharon’s silence stretched.
Aleem braced himself for refusal.
Then Sharon whispered, “I would like that.”
Aleem’s chest loosened.
“Okay,” he said softly. “Then we’ll do it. I’ll set it up.”
Sharon’s voice warmed.
“You always say ‘I will do it’ like it’s easy,” she said.
Aleem smiled.
“It’s not easy,” he admitted. “But I can learn. And I want to.”
There was a pause.
Then Sharon said quietly, “Thank you.”
Aleem’s throat tightened.
“You don’t have to thank me for wanting you to be safe,” he said.
“I know,” Sharon whispered. “But I’m thankful anyway.”
They moved into the quiet room.
Aleem opened the bookshelf door, stepped inside, and Sharon followed.
The small lantern glow softened the space. The room wasn’t large enough for drama. It forced them into closeness.
Sharon’s avatar stopped near the little chest.
“This room…” she murmured. “It really feels private.”
Aleem swallowed.
“That was the point,” he said.
Sharon’s voice dipped.
“In real life, I don’t have many rooms like this,” she confessed.
Aleem’s chest tightened.
“Do you want to talk about it?” he asked carefully.
Sharon was quiet.
Then she said, “Not yet.”
Aleem’s instinct was to soothe, to reassure.
He kept his response simple.
“Okay,” he said. “Whenever you’re ready.”
Sharon exhaled.
“You are very patient,” she said.
“I can be,” Aleem replied.
“Why?” Sharon asked.
Aleem paused.
Because he liked her.
Because he didn’t want to scare her away.
Because he knew what it felt like to be pressured into giving more than you had.
He chose a smaller truth.
“Because I respect you,” he said.
Sharon went silent.
Then she whispered, “That’s… rare.”
Aleem’s throat tightened.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
Sharon laughed softly.
“Don’t be,” she said. “Just… keep being like this.”
Aleem’s pulse steadied.
“I will,” he promised.
Sharon’s voice softened.
“Yaksok,” she murmured.
Yaksok (약속, yak-sok) – “Promise.”
“Yes,” Aleem replied. “Yaksok.”
They stayed in the quiet room for a while.
They didn’t build.
They didn’t mine.
They simply existed together in the same pocket of light.
Aleem became aware of her breathing through the headset, the faint sounds of fabric on her end, the way she occasionally shifted as if settling into a more comfortable position.
It felt strangely intimate.
Like sitting beside someone in a dark room where words weren’t required.
Sharon spoke first.
“Aleem,” she said softly.
“Yes?”
“Do you tell your friends about me?” she asked.
Aleem’s chest tightened.
He thought of ABIX.
Ivan, practical and sharp.
Crystal, impatient with nonsense.
Isabelle, gentle and perceptive.
They would have opinions.
They would tease him.
They would worry.
And if he told them too much, the safety he’d promised Sharon would be compromised.
He answered carefully.
“No,” he said. “Not yet. I haven’t told anyone. Because you asked for privacy.”
Sharon exhaled.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
Aleem’s throat tightened.
“But,” he added gently, “I might tell my closest friends that I’m… talking to someone. Without details. Is that okay?”
Sharon paused.
Then she said, softly, “Yes. But please don’t tell them my name.”
Aleem nodded.
“I won’t,” he promised.
Sharon’s voice went quieter.
“I don’t even know if Sharon is my name,” she admitted.
Aleem’s chest tightened.
He did not ask.
He did not push.
He simply said, “Then Sharon can be your name here. If you want it to be.”
Sharon exhaled.
“I like Sharon,” she said. “It feels… separate.”
Separate.
Aleem understood.
Separate could mean safe.
Separate could mean control.
Separate could mean a place where she wasn’t being watched.
“Then Sharon it is,” Aleem said.
Sharon’s voice softened.
“Thank you,” she whispered again.
Aleem breathed out.
He wanted to ask her for her real name.
He didn’t.
He didn’t want to steal the peace he’d built.
Later, they left the quiet room and went mining.
Aleem needed iron for the realm idea–if he was going to build redstone doors and proper defenses, they would need resources. Sharon needed the routine, the familiar safety of following torchlight rules.
They moved through the cave with practiced coordination.
Torches on the right.
Sharon behind him.
Aleem’s shield ready.
It was almost comforting how the world responded to logic.
They found iron.
They smelted.
They found redstone.
Sharon made her small delighted sound again.
“Redstone,” she whispered.
Aleem smiled.
“Yes,” he said. “We’ll make something secure.”
Sharon hummed.
“Secure,” she repeated, as if the word was soothing.
As they mined, Sharon’s voice grew more talkative.
She asked about Singapore.
“What do you do after work?” she asked.
Aleem thought.
“Usually… I go home,” he said. “I eat. I talk to my family. Sometimes I meet my friends. Sometimes I just… rest.”
Sharon was quiet.
Then she said softly, “It sounds calm.”
Aleem laughed faintly.
“It’s calm because I force it to be calm,” he admitted. “Singapore is busy too. Just… in a different way.”
Sharon hummed.
“In Korea, it’s busy like noise,” she said. “In Singapore, busy like… fast?”
Aleem considered.
“Yes,” he agreed. “Fast. Efficient. Sometimes too efficient.”
Sharon laughed softly.
“You really sound like an engineer,” she teased.
Aleem smiled.
“I can’t help it,” he said.
Sharon hesitated.
Then she asked, quieter, “Do you live with family?”
“Yes,” Aleem replied. “With my parents.”
Sharon’s voice softened.
“That sounds… warm,” she said.
“It can be,” Aleem admitted. “Sometimes it’s also… a lot.”
“A lot?” Sharon asked.
Aleem hesitated.
He did not want to complain.
But honesty mattered.
“A lot of expectations,” he said. “Not bad. Just… constant.”
Sharon exhaled.
“I understand,” she said softly.
Aleem’s chest tightened.
He wondered what expectations she meant.
He did not ask.
They returned to the base near midnight.
In the courtyard, lantern light made the stone path look soft.
Sharon’s avatar walked to the bench by the pond and stood there.
In the headset, Sharon was quiet.
Aleem waited.
He had learned not to fill her silence too quickly.
Finally, Sharon said, “Aleem?”
“Yes?”
“Can we… talk about something else?” she asked.
Aleem’s pulse tightened.
“Of course,” he said gently.
Sharon’s voice dipped.
“What are we?” she asked.
The question was simple.
It landed like weight.
Aleem inhaled slowly.
“We’re two people who like each other,” he said. “And we’re getting to know each other.”
Sharon’s voice was cautious.
“Is that… dating?” she asked.
Aleem hesitated.
He did not want to label something she might need to keep fluid.
But he also did not want to leave her in uncertainty.
He chose honesty.
“If you want to call it dating, then yes,” he said. “But I don’t want to rush you. I don’t want to pressure you. I just want to… be with you in a way that feels safe.”
Sharon exhaled.
“That sounds like you are afraid,” she whispered.
Aleem swallowed.
“I am,” he admitted. “Not of you. Of doing it wrong.”
Sharon was quiet.
Then she said softly, “I’m afraid too.”
Aleem’s chest tightened.
“Of what?” he asked gently.
Sharon hesitated.
Then she said, “Of making you regret me.”
Aleem’s throat tightened.
“I won’t,” he said.
Sharon’s voice was quiet.
“You don’t know that,” she whispered.
Aleem stared at the pond.
He thought about the boundaries.
The secrecy.
The complicated life.
He thought about the way she sounded when she said too many eyes.
He chose his words carefully.
“I don’t know what your life looks like,” he said. “But I know how you treat me. I know how you build. I know how you laugh. I know you try to learn my words. I know you leave me redstone like it means something. Those things are real. I won’t regret you for being real.”
Sharon went silent.
Then her voice softened, like she was trying not to let it break.
“Aleem…”
“Yes?”
“Can I hear you say my name again?” she asked.
Aleem’s pulse jumped.
“Sharon,” he said, quietly.
Her breath caught.
“Again,” she whispered.
“Sharon,” Aleem repeated, voice warmer.
A pause.
Then Sharon laughed softly, embarrassed.
“Sorry,” she said. “That was… strange.”
“It’s not strange,” Aleem replied. “It’s human.”
Sharon exhaled.
“Human,” she repeated.
The word sounded like something she missed.
After that, their conversation shifted naturally into logistics.
“What time is it for you?” Aleem asked.
“It’s late,” Sharon replied. “After midnight.”
“For me too,” Aleem said. “Singapore time.”
Sharon hummed.
“I forget you are not in Korea,” she admitted.
Aleem smiled.
“Because my English sounds Korean?” he teased.
Sharon laughed.
“No,” she said. “Because you feel close.”
Aleem swallowed.
He forced himself to breathe.
“Sharon,” he said carefully. “Can we add each other properly on Discord?”
“We already did,” Sharon pointed out.
“Yes,” Aleem said. “But we only have these accounts. And I don’t know if they’re… stable.”
Sharon went quiet.
Then she said softly, “You mean… you want my real account?”
Aleem hesitated.
He did.
But he did not want to pressure her.
“I want a way to reach you that doesn’t disappear,” he admitted. “But only if you’re comfortable.”
Sharon’s breath came out slow.
“I made this account for safety,” she confessed. “It’s new. No friends. No history.”
Aleem’s chest tightened.
“I understand,” he said.
Sharon continued, voice careful.
“But… I also don’t want to disappear,” she admitted. “I don’t want you to worry.”
Aleem swallowed.
“Then we can do this,” he offered. “We keep this account for now. But we set a backup–an email, or a second way to contact. Something that only we know.”
Sharon was quiet.
Then she asked softly, “If I give you that… will you keep it safe?”
Aleem’s throat tightened.
“Yes,” he said immediately. “I will.”
Sharon exhaled.
“Okay,” she whispered. “Then I will think.”
Aleem nodded.
“Take your time,” he said.
Sharon’s voice warmed faintly.
“Cheoncheonhi,” she murmured.
The next step came from her.
“Aleem,” Sharon said, voice cautious, “can we… video call one day?”
Aleem’s pulse jumped.
He kept his voice calm.
“Only if you want,” he said. “And only when you’re ready.”
Sharon exhaled.
“I want to,” she admitted. “But I’m scared.”
Aleem swallowed.
“Why?” he asked gently.
Sharon was quiet.
Then she said, softly, “Because if you see me, it becomes… real.”
Aleem’s chest tightened.
“It’s already real,” he said quietly. “But I understand what you mean.”
Sharon’s voice went smaller.
“Promise me something,” she asked.
Aleem’s pulse steadied.
“What?”
“Promise me you won’t take a screenshot,” Sharon said. “Even if you… feel tempted.”
The sentence landed like a tremor.
Aleem felt his chest tighten–not from offense, but from the sudden awareness that her fear had a shape.
He answered carefully.
“I promise,” he said. “I won’t. Not even once. If you show me your face, it will stay with me only here.”
He tapped his chest lightly, though she could not see.
Sharon exhaled.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
Aleem hesitated.
“Can I ask you something?” he said.
“Yes,” Sharon replied.
“Do you trust me?” Aleem asked.
Silence.
Then Sharon said softly, “I am learning to.”
Aleem swallowed.
“That’s fair,” he said.
Sharon’s voice warmed.
“You are also learning,” she pointed out.
Aleem smiled.
“Yes,” he admitted.
Sharon’s laugh was quiet.
“Then we learn together,” she said.
Aleem’s chest tightened.
“Yes,” he replied. “Together.”
After the call ended, Aleem sat in his chair for a long time.
The base was still glowing on his screen.
The lanterns still held their warmth.
The pond still reflected a strip of sky.
But Aleem felt like the world had widened.
A video call.
A face.
A truth that had not yet arrived.
He stared at Discord.
He had promised her secrecy.
He had promised her boundaries.
Now he needed another kind of support.
Not because he didn’t trust Sharon.
Because he wanted to do this properly.
He opened the ABIX group chat.
The familiar names greeted him like a room full of people who knew the worst parts of him and still stayed.
ABIX:
- Ivan
- Crystal
- Isabelle
Aleem typed slowly, choosing words like he was disarming something.
Aleem: I need advice. Not a joke.
Crystal replied first.
Crystal: That’s dramatic. You okay?
Ivan followed.
Ivan: Serious tone noted. What happened?
Isabelle’s message appeared last, softer.
Isabelle: Are you safe?
Aleem exhaled.
He typed.
Aleem: I met someone online. We’ve been talking for a while. And… I told her I like her. She said she likes me too.
A pause.
Then Crystal.
Crystal: Oh.
Ivan.
Ivan: Define “talking.” How long? Where?
Isabelle.
Isabelle: How do you feel?
Aleem stared at the screen.
How did he feel?
He typed the truth.
Aleem: Calm when I’m with her. Anxious when I’m not.
Isabelle replied immediately.
Isabelle: That sounds intense.
Crystal.
Crystal: Don’t get catfished, please.
Ivan.
Ivan: Before emotions: operational security. Don’t share personal data. Don’t share your address. Don’t send money.
Aleem’s mouth twitched.
Typical Ivan.
He typed.
Aleem: I haven’t shared anything. No money. No address. I’m careful.
Ivan.
Ivan: Good. But “careful” is not a strategy. List what she knows about you.
Aleem hesitated.
Then typed.
Aleem: She knows my name. That I’m in Singapore. That I’m Muslim. That I’m an engineer.
Crystal.
Crystal: That’s already a lot.
Isabelle.
Isabelle: Does she make you feel pressured?
Aleem typed.
Aleem: No. Actually, she’s the opposite. She’s private. She doesn’t even tell me her real name.
A pause.
Ivan.
Ivan: That can be a red flag or a safety behavior. Depends.
Crystal.
Crystal: Or she’s married.
Aleem sighed.
He typed.
Aleem: She’s not asking me for anything. She just… plays with me. Talks with me. She sounds tired all the time.
Isabelle.
Isabelle: That makes me sad.
Ivan.
Ivan: If she is private, respect it. But protect yourself too. What do you want from this?
Aleem stared.
What did he want?
He wanted to hear her voice tomorrow.
He wanted to keep building.
He wanted to see her face without her feeling afraid.
He wanted to be worthy of the trust she was slowly offering.
He typed.
Aleem: I want to do it properly.
Crystal.
Crystal: Then go slow. Don’t build fantasies.
Isabelle.
Isabelle: If she makes you feel peaceful, protect that. But don’t forget your real life.
Ivan.
Ivan: I want to meet her on voice someday. Not to interrogate. To verify. And if you video call, don’t record. Don’t screenshot. Use a device you trust. Basic hygiene.
Aleem’s chest tightened at Ivan’s bluntness.
He typed.
Aleem: I promised no screenshots. I won’t.
Isabelle.
Isabelle: That’s good.
Crystal.
Crystal: Also, don’t let her call you “lah” until she’s fluent.
Aleem snorted.
He typed.
Aleem: Too late.
Isabelle sent a laughing emoji.
Even Ivan replied with a short:
Ivan:
A pause.
Then:
Ivan: You understand she might have her own reasons for secrecy, right?
Aleem’s fingers tightened.
Aleem: I know.
Ivan: Okay. Then be kind, but stay smart. That’s all.
Aleem stared at the chat.
Kind, but smart.
He could do that.
He had always been good at that.
The difference now was that kindness wasn’t a general principle.
It had a name.
A voice.
A small humming sound that made his chest warm.
When Aleem returned to Discord later, Sharon had sent him a new message.
Sharon: i’m sorry i asked about video call. i didn’t want to pressure you
Aleem’s heart tightened.
He typed immediately.
Aleem: You didn’t pressure me. I’m glad you told me what you want. We can do it when you’re ready.
A pause.
Then Sharon replied.
Sharon: you always say “ready” like it’s a gentle word
Aleem swallowed.
Aleem: It is meant to be gentle.
Sharon’s next message came after a longer pause.
Sharon: can i send you something?
Aleem’s pulse jumped.
Aleem: Of course.
A moment later, a voice message appeared.
Aleem’s fingers hovered.
He clicked play.
Her voice filled his headset–closer than a call, because there was no live back-and-forth, no ambient noise, only her.
She spoke softly in Japanese.
“Oyasumi. Ashita mo… yoroshiku ne.”
He understood only parts.
But the tone–gentle, careful–made the meaning feel clear.
She sent a second text message right after, translating herself as if she had anticipated his confusion.
Sharon:
- Oyasumi (おやすみ, o-ya-su-mi) = “Good night.”
- Ashita mo yoroshiku ne (明日もよろしくね, a-shi-ta mo yo-ro-shi-ku ne) = “Please take care of me tomorrow too / See you tomorrow too.”
Aleem stared at the screen.
The phrase please take care of me tightened his chest.
He typed slowly.
Aleem: Thank you. I’ll take care of you tomorrow too. Sleep well.
A pause.
Then Sharon replied.
Sharon: cheoncheonhi… right?
Aleem smiled.
Aleem: Yes. Cheoncheonhi.
Sharon’s final message came a minute later.
Sharon: goodnight, aleem
Aleem stared at her words until the screen dimmed.
He did not add “lah.”
He did not make a joke.
He typed what he meant.
Aleem: Good night, Sharon.
Then he placed his phone face down, turned off his monitor, and lay back on his bed.
The room was quiet.
But the quiet no longer felt empty.
It felt occupied.
By a voice message.
By a promise.
By the knowledge that tomorrow was not only another day to endure.
Tomorrow was also another night.
And somewhere in Korea, a Japanese woman who called herself Sharon was learning to trust him in small increments–like placing torches on the right wall, like leaving redstone dust in a shared chest, like sending a single voice message that made the distance feel briefly, impossibly thin.
Aleem closed his eyes.
He heard her again, soft and close in his headset memory.
Ashita mo… yoroshiku ne.
See you tomorrow.
Take care of me.
He exhaled slowly.
“Okay,” he whispered.
And for the first time, the word did not sound like a plan.
It sounded like devotion.