The Webcam
Midnight in Singapore had a particular texture.
The city did not fully sleep–it never did–but it softened at the edges, as if even concrete needed rest. Traffic thinned into occasional distant whooshes. Elevator doors stopped opening and closing every few minutes. The corridor outside Aleem’s room quieted until the silence began to feel like something you could touch.
He waited for it.
Not because he wanted secrecy for its own sake, but because Sharon had used a phrase that still lived in his chest like a tight knot.
Someone checking.
If she was willing to show him her face tonight, it would not be because she trusted the world.
It would be because she trusted him.
Aleem had spent the evening preparing in small, deliberate steps, the way he prepared for anything that mattered.
He had prayed earlier–Isha–and lingered a little longer than usual after, not because he was trying to negotiate with God, but because the ritual calmed the tremor in his hands. He washed up again anyway, like cleanliness could translate into steadiness. He folded his blanket once, then unfolded it, then folded it again with annoyed precision.
His laptop sat on his desk. His desktop monitor glowed faintly. Discord was open, but he didn’t stare at Sharon’s status dot the way a younger, less disciplined version of him might have.
He checked his settings instead.
No recording software.
No auto-screen capture.
No cloud backup running in the background.
He had even disabled the common screenshot shortcut keys–not because he didn’t trust himself, but because Sharon’s fear deserved redundancy. If he could remove temptation entirely, he would.
He placed his phone face down.
Then he turned it back over.
Then, irritated at himself, he turned it face down again.
He opened Minecraft and joined their private world.
Redstone Between Us loaded with the same clean quiet it always did. The lantern gate glowed warmly, the courtyard pond reflected the dark sky, and the quiet room behind the bookshelf sat like a held breath.
Aleem walked there immediately.
The bookshelf door slid open. He stepped inside and closed it behind him.
Lantern light softened the wood walls. The painting Sharon had chosen–the one that looked like escape–hung above the small bench.
His sign was still there:
NO RUSH. NO PRESSURE.
JUST YOU. JUST ME.
He stared at it longer than he wanted to.
Then he turned his gaze away, sat back in his chair in the real world, and waited.
When the clock hit exactly twelve, Discord chimed.
A message.
Sharon: are you ready?
Aleem’s pulse jumped.
He took a breath.
He typed carefully.
Aleem: Yes. I’m here. Only if you’re comfortable.
Three dots appeared.
Then:
Sharon: i’m scared
Aleem exhaled slowly.
He typed:
Aleem: That’s okay. We can stop anytime. You can hang up anytime. No explanations.
A pause.
Then:
Sharon: ok
His call window lit up.
He accepted.
Static.
Then her voice.
“Hi,” Sharon said.
She sounded different tonight. Still gentle, still soft, but tighter around the edges–as if every word had to pass through a gate before it was allowed out.
“Hi,” Aleem replied, keeping his voice low. “Are you safe?”
A small breath.
“Yes,” she said. “For now.”
The honesty landed quietly.
Aleem’s fingers tightened around the mouse.
“I’m in the quiet room,” he said. “In the game.”
“I’m logging in,” Sharon replied.
A few seconds later, her avatar appeared in the courtyard. She walked through the lantern gate with her usual pause–one half-beat of appreciation, like she needed the light to register as real–then moved toward the shelter.
“Aleem,” Sharon said softly.
“Yes?”
“Before we do it,” she whispered, “can we say the rules again? Out loud.”
Aleem felt relief.
Rules were something he understood.
Rules made fear manageable.
“Of course,” he said. “You lead.”
Sharon’s voice steadied slightly.
“Rule one,” she said. “No screenshots. No recording.”
“I agree,” Aleem replied. “No screenshots. No recordings. Not even once.”
“Rule two,” Sharon continued. “If I say I have to go, you won’t ask why.”
“I agree,” Aleem said. “No questions. No guilt.”
“Rule three,” Sharon said, quieter, “you won’t tell anyone my face. Not your friends.”
“I agree,” Aleem replied. “No one. Not until you want it.”
“Rule four,” Sharon murmured, “if you feel uncomfortable, you tell me.”
Aleem swallowed.
“I agree,” he said. “I will tell you. I won’t pretend.”
A pause.
Then Sharon’s voice dipped.
“Rule five,” she said. “If you react… please be gentle.”
Aleem’s chest tightened.
“Okay,” he said softly. “I will.”
Sharon exhaled.
They both went quiet for a moment.
In the game, Sharon’s avatar entered the quiet room behind the bookshelf door. She stood beside him, lantern light washing her skin in warm pixels.
In real life, Aleem stared at the small Discord call window as if it contained something fragile.
“Do you want me to turn my camera on?” he asked.
Sharon hesitated.
Then she whispered, “Maybe… yes. First.”
Aleem’s pulse kicked.
“Okay,” he said.
He adjusted his webcam angle without overthinking it. He didn’t want to look staged. He didn’t want to look like he had prepared for a photoshoot. He wanted to look like himself.
He turned it on.
His face appeared on screen–glasses reflecting monitor light, hair slightly messy, expression steady but clearly nervous.
He watched Sharon’s side of the call.
Her camera remained black.
But he could feel her attention.
A few seconds passed.
Then Sharon’s voice came, almost a whisper.
“Okay,” she said.
Aleem swallowed.
“No rush,” he reminded her.
“I know,” Sharon replied. “Cheoncheonhi.”
Cheoncheonhi (천천히, cheon-cheon-hi) – “Slowly.”
“Yes,” Aleem said softly. “Cheoncheonhi.”
He heard her inhale.
Then, on screen, her camera icon flickered.
A moment of darkness.
And then–
Her face appeared.
Aleem’s mind went blank in the most humiliating way.
Not because she was beautiful–though she was, in the quiet, unstyled way that felt more startling than glamour.
Not because she looked like a stranger–she didn’t.
Because he knew her.
In the same instant that his brain registered soft features and dark hair and tired eyes, recognition slammed into him with brutal clarity.
His pulse jumped so hard he felt it in his throat.
He stared.
The world narrowed.
It took him a second to remember to breathe.
On his screen, Sharon’s face was lit by a monitor glow, slightly shadowed at the edges. She wasn’t wearing stage makeup. Her hair looked loosely tied or simply falling where it wanted. She looked… human.
But Aleem’s mind insisted on matching her to a thousand stored images–music videos, fancams, interviews, the delicate swan-like presence he had watched from a distance for years.
His bias.
His quiet comfort.
The idol he had never dared to imagine existing within reach.
His mouth opened.
No sound came out.
Sharon watched him.
Her eyes widened, just slightly.
“Aleem?” she asked softly.
He heard the fear in the way she said his name.
Aleem forced his lungs to work.
He forced his voice to come out steady.
“I–” he began.
His voice cracked.
He cleared his throat quickly.
“I’m here,” he said, but the words sounded inadequate.
Sharon’s face tightened.
“Do you…” Her voice trembled. “Do you know me?”
Aleem stared at her.
His mind ran through disaster scenarios with the speed of lightning.
If he reacted wrong–if he said her name too quickly, too eagerly–she would feel exposed.
If he denied recognition, she would know he was lying.
If he turned into a fan, he would ruin everything.
He had rehearsed.
But rehearsal did not prepare you for your favorite idol appearing on your screen and looking afraid of you.
Aleem swallowed.
“Yes,” he admitted quietly.
Sharon’s face went still.
“Who am I?” she whispered.
Aleem’s fingers trembled slightly on the desk.
He made himself speak slowly, carefully, as if each word could bruise.
“You’re…” He paused, then continued. “You’re Myoui Mina.”
The name left his mouth like a confession he wasn’t sure he was allowed to make.
Sharon’s eyes closed briefly.
When she opened them, they looked shiny.
Not tears yet.
Just the edge of them.
“Yes,” she whispered.
A quiet silence stretched between them.
Aleem felt heat behind his eyes.
Not because he wanted to cry.
Because the situation was too large, and his body didn’t know what to do with it.
He swallowed again.
“I’m sorry,” he said immediately.
Sharon blinked.
“Why are you sorry?” she asked.
“Because…” Aleem struggled to find words that didn’t make her feel trapped. “Because I know you didn’t want to be… that here.”
Sharon’s breath shuddered softly.
“I didn’t,” she admitted.
Aleem nodded.
“I understand,” he said.
Sharon stared at him.
There was a fragile tension in her gaze, like she was waiting for him to change shape.
Waiting for the inevitable.
Aleem realized, with sudden clarity, that she had probably done this before.
Not the video call.
The reveal.
The moment where someone learned who she was and stopped seeing her as a person.
He steadied his voice.
“Sharon,” he said gently.
Her face flinched at the name.
He continued, softer, “I’m still going to call you Sharon. If that’s what you want.”
Sharon’s expression trembled.
“You… you won’t call me Mina?” she asked.
Aleem shook his head.
“Only if you want me to,” he said. “I don’t want to take that from you.”
Sharon stared.
Her lips parted.
Then, very quietly, she asked, “Are you… a fan?”
The question landed with sharp precision.
Aleem could have lied.
He didn’t.
“Yes,” he admitted. “I was.”
Sharon’s eyes widened.
“Was?” she repeated.
Aleem inhaled.
“I am,” he corrected carefully. “But… that’s not what this is. Not for me.”
Sharon’s expression tightened.
“How can you say that?” she whispered.
Aleem’s chest tightened.
“Because I didn’t know,” he said softly. “When I liked you, I liked you as Sharon. The person who built flowers and learned my words and hummed when she was calm.”
Sharon’s eyes flickered.
Her breathing sounded uneven.
Aleem continued, gentler.
“And now that I know… I’m scared too,” he admitted.
Sharon blinked.
“You’re scared?”
“Yes,” Aleem said. “Because I don’t want to hurt you. I don’t want to make you feel like you can’t breathe here anymore.”
Sharon’s gaze softened, just slightly.
But fear still lingered.
“Aleem,” she whispered, “people change when they find out. They start watching. They start collecting. They start… wanting.”
Aleem swallowed.
“I won’t,” he said.
Sharon’s eyes sharpened.
“You don’t know that,” she said, the same sentence she had used before, now heavier.
Aleem stared at her.
He did know something.
He knew what it felt like to be lonely.
He knew what it felt like to hold yourself together while the world demanded pieces.
He knew, at least, that he would rather break his own heart than become another set of hungry eyes.
He spoke carefully.
“You’re right,” he said. “I don’t know the future. But I can choose my actions. And I’m choosing to be respectful.”
Sharon’s breathing slowed slightly.
Aleem added, almost pleading without sounding like it, “If I ever make you uncomfortable, tell me. I will stop. Immediately.”
Sharon stared at him.
Then she asked, very quietly, “Do you still like me?”
Aleem’s throat tightened.
“Yes,” he said. “I do.”
Sharon’s eyes shimmered.
“Even now?” she whispered.
Aleem swallowed.
“Even now,” he replied.
He hesitated, then added with careful honesty, “But I understand if you don’t want this anymore.”
Sharon blinked.
Her lips pressed together.
She looked away from the camera for a second, as if listening for a sound in her real world.
Then she looked back.
“I don’t want to lose you,” she said, voice shaking slightly.
Aleem’s chest tightened.
“You won’t,” he said softly. “Not unless you want to leave.”
Sharon’s breath caught.
Her gaze returned to his face on screen.
She studied him–his glasses, his restrained expression, the way he didn’t lean forward like he wanted to trap the moment.
Then she asked, like she needed to test it:
“Say my name,” she whispered.
Aleem’s pulse kicked.
He understood what she meant.
Not Mina.
The name she had chosen here.
He kept his voice gentle.
“Sharon,” he said.
Her eyes closed briefly.
“Again,” she whispered.
“Sharon,” Aleem repeated.
A shaky exhale.
Sharon opened her eyes.
For the first time since the camera turned on, her expression softened.
Not fully.
But enough.
Aleem felt a small release in his chest.
He forced himself to keep the conversation grounded.
“Are you safe right now?” he asked quietly.
Sharon nodded slightly.
“Yes,” she said. “I… locked the door.”
Aleem’s chest tightened.
“Okay,” he said. “If anyone knocks, you hang up. No need to explain.”
Sharon’s lips curved faintly.
“You really treat this like a mission,” she said.
Aleem gave a small exhale that was almost a laugh.
“It’s because I care,” he said simply.
Sharon’s gaze softened.
Then she looked down briefly, as if embarrassed.
“I didn’t expect you to be so… calm,” she admitted.
Aleem blinked.
“I’m not calm,” he said honestly.
Sharon looked up.
“You look calm,” she said.
Aleem hesitated, then allowed himself a tiny slip–more a sound than a phrase.
“Wah,” he breathed.
Sharon froze.
“Wah?” she repeated, confused.
Aleem’s cheeks warmed.
“Sorry,” he said quickly. “It’s… Singapore habit. It means… I’m shocked.”
Sharon stared.
Then, to his surprise, she laughed.
A small laugh.
But real.
“Wah,” she repeated, amused. “So if I’m shocked, I say wah.”
Aleem smiled faintly.
“Please don’t say it in Korean,” he warned gently. “They’ll think you’re saying ‘wow’ wrong.”
Sharon’s smile widened slightly.
“Wah,” she said again, tasting the word like a small rebellion.
Aleem felt warmth bloom in his chest.
The laugh loosened the tension.
Sharon’s shoulders–visible now, real–seemed to drop a fraction.
She looked at him steadily.
“Aleem,” she said softly.
“Yes?”
“Can I ask you something honestly?” Sharon asked.
Aleem nodded.
“Of course,” he said.
Sharon’s voice dipped.
“Why did you like me as Sharon?” she asked. “Before you knew.”
Aleem swallowed.
He could list reasons like an engineer.
He could say: you are kind, you are gentle, you make me feel calm.
But the truth had nuance.
He looked at her face on screen.
“I liked you because you were… sincere,” he said quietly. “You didn’t try to impress me. You didn’t demand anything. You built flowers in dangerous places. You learned my words even when you were tired. You apologized for taking time, like time was something you weren’t allowed to have.”
Sharon’s eyes shimmered.
Aleem continued, voice steady but low.
“And because you made my nights feel less lonely,” he admitted.
Sharon’s breath caught.
She looked down for a second, then back up.
“That’s… dangerous,” she whispered again, but her tone was softer now.
Aleem smiled faintly.
“I keep being told that,” he said.
Sharon’s lips curved, a small, fragile smile.
“Maybe I like dangerous,” she murmured.
The line landed in Aleem’s chest like a spark.
He didn’t respond with flirtation.
He didn’t want to turn the moment into heat.
He wanted to keep it safe.
So he said, simply, “Cheoncheonhi.”
Sharon’s eyes softened.
“Cheoncheonhi,” she repeated.
They sat in a quiet pause, both of them watching the other through screens, both of them trying to measure a new shape of reality.
Sharon’s gaze drifted slightly, as if she was looking at his image rather than through it.
Then she whispered, “You really were my bias.”
Aleem’s breath caught.
“I…” he began.
He didn’t know what to say.
He didn’t know if he should deny it or admit it.
Sharon watched him.
Her expression was wary again.
Not accusing.
Just afraid.
Aleem swallowed.
“I admire you,” he said carefully. “But I need you to know something.”
Sharon’s eyes held his.
“What?” she asked.
Aleem spoke slowly.
“I don’t want to date an idol,” he said quietly. “I don’t want to date a public image. I want… you. The person who plays Minecraft at one a.m. and laughs at my Singlish and says cheoncheonhi like it’s a prayer.”
Sharon stared.
Her breath trembled.
“You’re saying that now,” she whispered. “But what if you see me on stage and you… change?”
Aleem’s throat tightened.
“I don’t know,” he admitted honestly. “I’ve never been in this situation. But I know what I want to do. I want to be respectful. I want to keep your private self safe. I want to earn the trust you’re giving me.”
Sharon’s eyes shimmered.
She looked away again, listening.
The silence stretched.
Aleem held his breath.
Finally, Sharon looked back.
“No one knocked,” she whispered, almost amused at her own paranoia.
Aleem’s mouth curved.
“That’s good,” he said.
Sharon exhaled.
Then, quietly, she said, “I’m glad I did this.”
Aleem’s chest tightened.
“I’m glad too,” he replied.
Sharon studied his face again.
Then she asked, soft and careful, “Can you promise me one more thing?”
Aleem nodded.
“Yes,” he said. “Anything that keeps you safe.”
Sharon’s voice dipped.
“Promise me you won’t tell me you love me,” she said.
Aleem froze.
The sentence startled him.
Not because he wanted to say it.
But because it revealed how much she feared big words.
He kept his voice gentle.
“Why?” he asked softly.
Sharon swallowed.
“Because love is… heavy,” she whispered. “And I can’t carry heavy things right now. I like you. I want to stay. But if you say love, it will feel like something I have to answer properly. And I don’t know if I can.”
Aleem’s chest tightened.
He understood.
In his life, love had always been framed as commitment, responsibility, family, a path with expectations.
If Sharon’s world was already full of pressure, love would sound like another demand.
He nodded slowly.
“Okay,” he said. “I won’t say it. Not until you want to hear it.”
Sharon exhaled, relief visible.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
Aleem’s throat tightened.
“Cheoncheonhi,” he said again.
Sharon’s lips curved faintly.
“Cheoncheonhi,” she echoed.
A soft pause.
Then Sharon looked down, then back up.
“Aleem,” she said.
“Yes?”
“I need to go soon,” she whispered.
Aleem’s chest tightened.
“Okay,” he said immediately. “No questions.”
Sharon’s eyes softened with gratitude.
“I’m sorry,” she began.
Aleem shook his head.
“No,” he said gently. “No apologies. You did something brave tonight.”
Sharon’s breath caught.
“You think it was brave?” she asked.
Aleem nodded.
“Yes,” he said. “Because you didn’t have to. And you still did.”
Sharon stared at him for a moment, as if trying to decide whether to believe it.
Then, quietly, she said, “Thank you for not looking at me like I’m… a prize.”
Aleem’s chest tightened.
“I won’t,” he said.
Sharon’s lips trembled into a small smile.
“Wah,” she whispered, testing the word again.
Aleem laughed softly.
“Wah,” he replied.
Sharon’s smile faded into seriousness again.
“Good night,” she said.
“It’s okay,” Aleem replied gently. “Good night.”
Sharon hesitated.
Then, quietly, she added in Japanese:
“Oyasumi.” (おやすみ, o-ya-su-mi) – “Good night.”
Aleem’s throat tightened.
“Oyasumi,” he replied.
Sharon’s eyes held his for one last second.
Then her camera went black.
A second later, the call ended.
Aleem sat very still.
His webcam was still on.
His own face stared back at him in the call window, but it looked unfamiliar–eyes too wide, expression too tight around the edges.
He turned the camera off.
In the game, his avatar stood in the quiet room beside Sharon’s avatar, which had gone idle before disappearing.
The lantern light flickered.
The signs on the wall stared back:
NO RUSH. NO PRESSURE.
JUST YOU. JUST ME.
Aleem stared at the painting–the one that looked like escape.
Then he exhaled slowly and placed one more sign beneath it.
STAY HUMAN HERE.
The words looked plain.
They felt necessary.
He leaned back in his chair and covered his eyes with his hand.
His heart was still beating too fast.
The shock had not fully settled.
He had just video called Myoui Mina.
He had just been trusted with the face the world thought it owned.
He had just been given something that could ruin her if he handled it wrong.
And the worst part–the most honest part–was that a piece of him still felt the old fan awe, the childhood-of-his-adulthood thrill.
He did not want to lie to himself.
He did not want to pretend that awe didn’t exist.
But he also did not want awe to be the center.
He wanted Sharon.
He wanted the version of her that hummed when she was calm.
He wanted the person who laughed at “wah” and asked him not to say love yet.
He wanted the quiet.
He stared at the lantern light until his breathing steadied.
Then he opened Discord.
He did not message her.
He did not flood her with reassurance.
He remembered Rule Two.
If she left, he let her leave.
So he closed the app.
In the silence of his room, Aleem whispered a name–soft, careful, like a prayer he wasn’t sure he was allowed to speak.
“Mina.”
Then, correcting himself, he whispered again.
“Sharon.”
Outside, Singapore’s night held.
Inside, Aleem’s mind spun with a single, terrifying question:
If the girl he had fallen for was an idol the world adored, could he keep loving her in a way that did not steal her breath?
He stared at the ceiling.
And for the first time since he met her, tomorrow felt less like a promise…
…and more like a test.