GAME NIGHT

I never saw Miles smile much, not even when we were kids. But that night, if you looked close enough (past the shadows, past the silence) you might’ve caught it. A flicker, like a secret. “You still up, Miles?” a voice called faintly from behind the door. No answer. The room stayed dim, lit only by the yellow hum of a desk lamp and the soft scrape of pencil against paper. Sketches covered every inch of the wall. Dungeons with collapsing towers. Monsters half-drawn, half-remembered. Maps of nowhere. “You hear me, boy?” “Yeah,” Miles muttered. “Sorry.” “You didn’t do the dishes again.” “I’ll get to it.” “No. You won’t.” Footsteps stomped away. A door slammed. The silence rushed back in. Miles lowered his head. The pencil in his hand moved faster than he could think, curving into a symbol that felt... familiar. Wrong. Powerful. “Begin session,” he whispered. And the pencil snapped. “Okay, what the hell...” he breathed, eyes wide. The lamp dimmed. Shadows moved like water across the floor. A line on his drawing glowed faint red, curling like a scar across the parchment. Miles stared at it, unmoving. The window creaked. A cold breeze swept through, though the glass was shut. “What is that?” he whispered. The symbol pulsed once. Then again. “Miles...” he muttered to himself, clutching his wrist like the pencil burned him. “It’s just a drawing.” The paper crinkled as he peeled it off the notebook. When he flipped it over, there was nothing on the back. But the warmth on his fingertips stayed. Like the drawing had marked him. Then, suddenly, the light returned to normal. The pulsing stopped. The glow vanished. “Miles! You hear me?” “Yeah,” he croaked. But his voice didn’t sound like his own. Later that night, he taped the drawing to the wall. It didn’t match any of the others. Not in style. Not in detail. Not even in the way it seemed to... shift, when no one looked at it directly. Like the paper remembered something he didn’t. “I didn’t make this,” he said to himself. But he had. Or something in him had. The next morning, the smell of burned toast filled the kitchen. His mother slapped a plate down without looking at him. His father didn’t show. “You draw those little goblins again?” she asked. “No. A world.” She squinted. “A what?” “Never mind.” “Miles, if you spent half as much time helping around here as you did making that fantasy crap…” “I said never mind.” He grabbed his bag and left, not realizing he had taken the notebook with him. College. Years later. I don’t remember the first time I saw the flyer. I only remember the way the word “Vale” felt when I read it. Like a name I’d heard in a dream and forgot the moment I woke up. “Game Night. Liam Ramirez invites you to Eidolon Vale.” It was pinned crooked on the dorm bulletin board, torn at the corner. Beneath it, someone had scribbled in red pen: Bring your own character. Leave your world behind. I almost walked past it. I almost crumpled it. But something in me whispered... begin. So I showed up. That’s how this story started. Not with the first roll. Not even with the first death. But with a name. And the memory of someone who would rewrite everything. “Is this the right room?” Miles asked, already halfway through the door. “You found it!” Bee’s voice practically bounced. “Don’t worry. We haven’t started yet.” Liam looked up from the makeshift map on the table and grinned. “You made it.” The room was cramped. Posters peeling at the corners. Two desk lamps set the mood. Snacks piled dangerously close to the dice trays. A half-finished soda can trembled with every bump to the table. Sienna leaned back in her chair, arms folded. “That’s the new guy?” “Name’s Miles,” Liam said. “He builds games. Thought he’d be perfect for this.” “Perfect, huh,” Sienna muttered, sizing him up like a midterm exam. I sat in the far corner, silent. I watched them through the flicker of cheap LED string lights. I didn’t speak. Not until Liam handed me the character sheet. “You in, Theo?” he asked. I nodded once. “All right,” Liam said, voice calm but thick with anticipation. “Welcome to Eidolon Vale.” He laid out the map, rough paper tiles, hand-inked with a detail only someone who loved it would bother crafting. Forests in swirling green. Broken towers outlined in silver gel pen. Blank hexes waiting for story. “This is a world stitched together by emotion,” he continued. “Magic is rare. Memory is sacred. Dice don’t just roll for chance. They roll for truth.” Bee nudged Miles with a grin. “You always talk like that?” “Only when I want the dice to fear me,” Liam winked. “Let’s begin.” He held up the twenty-sided die. The room held its breath. He rolled. It spun, catching light, slowing (click, click, click) then landing softly. In that second, I swear I saw it: each of us as our characters. Armor. Cloaks. Scars we didn’t have. Dreams we hadn’t yet admitted. And a voice whispering, “Begin.” “I’ll play a paladin,” I said. “Silent Oath. Shieldbearer. You know.” Liam raised a brow. “Same as me?” “I’ll be your younger brother.” There was a beat of silence. “Of course,” he said quietly. “Perfect.” Miles scribbled furiously. His notes never stopped. Sienna adjusted her ring. “Warlock. Pact-bound. No name.” Bee grinned. “Bard. Chaotic neutral. Hair’s always perfect.” Laughter. A small one. From June. She sat across from me, her fingers brushing the paper gently. She didn’t speak right away. Then she wrote: “Nyra.” “Daggers?” Liam asked. She nodded. “Fast hands. Faster exits.” But when she said it, her eyes flicked to me. Just for a second. I didn’t look away. We didn’t speak for the rest of the night. But the room felt warmer after that. The game ended at 2:17 a.m. No one wanted to stop. Bee fell asleep on the floor, hugging his dice bag. Sienna left early, muttering something about real-world obligations. Miles stayed behind, cleaning up the map with the care of someone putting away something sacred. Liam clapped me on the shoulder. “Good start, huh?” I nodded. He smiled. “Next time, you lead.” I left before the lights turned off. Campus was quiet. Cold air nipped my face. My fingers slipped into my coat pocket and found it, my character sheet. Still warm from my hand. Still etched with stats that somehow felt more like confession than design. I paused under a streetlamp. Looked up. For the first time in a long time, I wondered: What if this world (the one we imagined) was the only one where I didn’t feel like a ghost? I didn’t know yet. But I wanted to find out. Liam laughed, full-bodied and stupidly alive. June laughed with him. The way she tilted her head back, hand brushing his shoulder, like it was the most natural thing in the world. “Your rogue just stole the crown and blamed the barkeep?” Liam said, barely holding it together. June grinned. “Rogues don’t apologize.” They high-fived over the table. My hand stayed on my dice. Unmoved. “You good, Theo?” Bee asked from my right. I nodded. “Your paladin’s brooding again,” June teased. Liam leaned closer. “Must be staying in character.” I forced a smile. It didn’t reach anywhere. Sienna summoned fire with a flick of her ring. Miles introduced a new rule mechanic that no one questioned. The world moved around me. I sat there, silent. A knight without a quest. And they never noticed I wasn’t playing. “You can’t cast that spell twice without resting,” Sienna snapped. “I didn’t say I was casting it,” Bee replied, eyes wide. “I said I was considering casting it.” “Same difference.” “It’s a huge difference.” “It’s meta-cheating.” “You’re meta-controlling,” he muttered. Liam raised his hands. “Okay, okay. Let’s take a beat.” “I can just stab someone if that’s easier,” June offered dryly. Bee chuckled, but it fell flat. Even he felt it. “No one’s stabbing anyone,” Liam sighed. “Not yet.” Across the table, Miles didn’t speak. He just scribbled something into his notebook. His pen never paused. A smile twitched at the edge of his mouth, but it didn’t look kind. “What’s he always writing?” Bee whispered. “Campaign notes,” Liam said. “World stuff.” “Creepy,” Bee muttered. I rolled my dice. It bounced once. Then stopped cold. Failure. No one looked up. I stood quietly. No one noticed at first. “You out?” Liam asked mid-sentence. I nodded, not trusting my voice. “I’m done for tonight.” June frowned. “Wait, but we haven’t…” “It’s fine,” I said, stepping back. Sienna didn’t look up. “Can someone take over his character?” “I got it,” Bee offered. “But I won’t do the voice. It’s too broody.” They laughed. Kind of. I walked to the door without grabbing my sheet. No one stopped me. Not even Liam. Outside, the hallway felt colder than it should have. I didn’t know if it was the air or me. I pressed a hand to my chest. Nothing ached. But somehow, everything did. Behind the door, their voices continued. The story went on. The world we built still spun. Just without me in it. I hadn’t even unlocked my bike the next morning before I heard him behind me. “Hey.” Liam. He was holding two coffees and the campaign book under one arm. His scarf was crooked. He looked like he hadn’t slept. “I figured you’d be here,” he said. “I always am,” I replied. He handed me a coffee. I took it, out of habit. “Look,” he started, “I saw your roll. It wasn’t fair.” “It’s a game.” “You’re not just a pawn, Theo. You’re the soul of that story.” I looked down at the steam rising from my cup. “I think... we should rewrite your paladin’s arc,” Liam said. “Why?” “Because he’s not broken. He’s just lost. And that’s not the same thing.” I didn’t answer right away. But I nodded. And for the first time, I believed he meant it. “You know why I love this game?” Liam asked, skipping a rock across the lake’s still surface. It was early. The water glimmered silver. Trees whispered, half-awake. He wore his hoodie up. His coffee steamed in one hand. I shook my head. He tossed another rock. “Because it’s the only place I feel like I can save someone.” I frowned. “You’re not a savior, Liam.” “No, I know,” he said. “But in there, I get to try. Real life doesn’t give you rolls. Just... silence. Misunderstandings. Missed chances.” He crouched, scooping another stone. “In the Vale, I get to protect people. Make things right. Fix what I can’t fix out here.” “You think we’re broken?” He paused. “I think we’re unfinished.” The rock hit the water and disappeared. Just like that. “Let’s start with the oath,” Liam said, sitting cross-legged on the dock, campaign book open. I sat beside him, flipping to my character sheet. “He never swore to protect the realm. He swore to protect someone. That’s why he fights.” “Who?” I asked. Liam looked at me. “You tell me.” My pen hovered. I wrote a name—one I’d never say aloud. Not yet. “His magic doesn’t come from purity,” Liam continued. “It comes from guilt. Maybe even grief.” “That’s pretty heavy.” “Good stories always are.” From across the field, Bee watched us. He sat on a bench, headphones in, eyes on his phone. A melody drifted up. Gentle chords, soft as breath. His screen read: “The Oath Between Brothers - WIP” I didn’t know if it was about us. Or about what we lost before we even began. Miles sat in the corner of the campus library, laptop glowing faintly in the dark. No headphones. Just the low hum of keys. Click-click. Pause. Click-click-click. On his screen, the Archivist NPC floated mid-dialogue. Miles leaned back, staring at the text box. He took out a crumpled sticky note and placed it beside the keyboard. It read: “It’s the only place I feel like I can save someone.” - L.R. He typed the line into the Archivist’s script. “No one ever knows where the story ends,” he muttered. “But someone has to write it.” He hit save. The screen blinked once. The line stayed. And for just a breath (too fast to see) his reflection flickered red. We sat back at the dorm that night, all of us around the table. Bee plucked a tune on his guitar between turns. Sienna browsed a spell list, half-focused. June leaned over her character sheet, biting her lip. Liam grinned, his energy unstoppable. Miles adjusted his screen, rolling the story forward. But the map, something about it had changed. The forest looked deeper. The cliffs steeper. There was a tower that none of us remembered adding, etched in red ink that shimmered under the lamp. “Did you draw that?” I asked him. Miles didn’t look up. “It drew itself.” The camera in my mind pulled closer (closer) until the map filled everything. The paper wasn’t just paper anymore. It was a world. Breathing. Waiting. And for the first time... watching us back. “Alright,” Liam said, “Chapter Three. You enter the Emerald Vale.” Bee played a soft tune on his phone speakers, something whimsical with a melancholy hum underneath. The table was scattered with character minis, colored dice, old maps we’d redrawn twice. But something was different tonight. June leaned in, voice sharp and fast. “I somersault past the guards, land behind the altar, and draw both blades.” “You get advantage for the style points,” Liam smirked. She smirked back. “Warlock at your flank,” he warned. Sienna adjusted her mini. “He won’t last long. Pact bond. Flame channel.” I raised my hand. “I intercept. Shield raised. I’m taking the hit.” “Roll it,” Liam said. The die clacked across the tray. “Natural 19,” I said quietly. “Of course it is,” Bee muttered. “Our walking fortress speaks again.” The table lit up with laughter. And for the first time, I laughed too. “So this is the Lying Forest?” Bee asked. “It’s gorgeous.” “It’s not supposed to be here,” Miles said under his breath. “What?” “Nothing.” On the map, vines moved where none had been drawn. The trees curved unnaturally, too fluid, too alive. One of them was humming. The ink shimmered. “I step forward,” June said. “You hear a voice,” Liam narrated. “It sounds like your own, but it’s not. It says: You’re not who you think you are.” She blinked. “I stab the air.” “Roll.” June rolled an 8. “Miss,” Liam said. Bee leaned forward. “Who made this part?” Liam looked at Miles. “Did you add this zone?” Miles shook his head slowly. “I didn’t.” But the map said otherwise. The forest kept growing. And somewhere beneath the table, a red line bled across the grid. “There’s a figure in the center of the Vale,” Miles said. “I didn’t see it in the notes,” Liam replied. “You didn’t put it there?” Bee asked. “No,” Liam said. “But he’s holding a book... and staring directly at your party.” The group tensed. “What’s his name?” I asked. Miles looked up. “The Archivist.” “What’s his class?” June asked. “No class,” Miles said. “What does he do?” Sienna said, narrowing her eyes. “He watches.” We all fell quiet. “I walk up to him,” I said. “Weapon sheathed.” “He says, ‘You’ve written yourselves into this world. But you’ve forgotten the ending.’” Liam frowned. “That’s not a line I wrote.” Miles gave nothing away. His pen scribbled something unseen in the margins. We rolled initiative. The fight didn’t start. But something else did. The next day, the hallway buzzed with noise. Fluorescent lights flickered as I passed vending machines and half-heard conversations. I spotted June near the art building. Her jacket hung off one shoulder. She didn’t see me. Or pretended not to. “June,” I said. She kept walking. No glance. No nod. Just gone. Later that night, we played again. Her rogue stood beside mine, bleeding. “I heal him,” she said. Liam blinked. “You don’t have healing magic.” June’s voice didn’t falter. “I still do it.” He paused, then nodded. “Okay. You press your hand to his chest. The wound closes. Barely.” I looked at her across the table. She didn’t look back. In the game, she saved me. In real life, she never even said hello. “I offer it,” Sienna said, her voice low but clear. “My Echo token. Let the warlock take the blow.” Bee glanced at her. “You sure? That’s like... permanent.” Liam leaned forward. “You know what that does, right?” “It saves the party, doesn’t it?” she replied. “No,” Miles answered from behind the screen. “It changes your bond.” “What bond?” “With the Archivist.” Everyone went still. “I didn’t agree to that,” Liam said. “I don’t need your permission,” Sienna muttered. Miles typed something on his laptop. The system glitched. Her character sheet flickered onscreen, then reloaded with black sigils woven into the pact slot. “That wasn’t me,” he said quietly. “Sienna...” I started. She met my eyes. “Don’t,” she snapped. “Someone had to do something.” The candle beside her flickered out on its own. We were half an hour into the next session when Bee cleared his throat. “My bard walks up to June’s rogue,” he said. “And... says something.” Liam tilted his head. “What does he say?” Bee shifted uncomfortably. “He says... ‘You’ve got the fastest hands I’ve ever seen. But I wish you’d hold mine just once.’” Silence. Even the air seemed to freeze. June blinked. “Is that in-character?” Bee forced a grin. “Of course. Total roleplay. My bard’s just being chaotic.” Sienna raised an eyebrow. “Sure.” “I mean, unless someone wants to roll for it,” Bee added with a laugh. “Charisma check?” No one laughed. “You good, man?” Liam asked gently. “Great,” Bee replied too fast. “Just keeping things interesting.” But as he adjusted his character sheet, I saw the handwriting change. He’d crossed out comic relief. He’d written: Important. We were ambushed by phantom knights. One hit me hard, too hard for the level. “June, you’re up,” Liam called. She hesitated. Her fingers hovered over her spell list. Her brow furrowed. Something was off. “I cast Minor Heal,” she finally said. “You’re too far.” “I step in.” “You’ll take an opportunity attack.” “I know.” She rolled. Low. “Missed,” Liam muttered. “You miscast.” Her shoulders slumped. “Can I try again?” “No rerolls,” Miles said without looking up. We all waited. Then she looked at me. Not my character, me. She didn’t say anything. But I saw it. The guilt. The hesitation. The memory. I said quietly, “He stands on his own.” She nodded once. But her hands were shaking. And for the first time, she couldn’t hide it. After the session, everyone left in fragments. Sienna didn’t say goodbye. Bee joked about microwave noodles then disappeared. I stayed behind to help clean up. Miles closed his laptop with a soft click. “You’re quiet tonight,” I said. “Too much input,” he muttered. As I turned to leave, I caught something beside his keyboard. A small velvet box. Unopened. I stared. “That yours?” I asked. He didn’t answer right away. Then: “Liam asked me to hold onto it.” “What is it?” “A question.” I waited, but he didn’t elaborate. He pushed the box aside and reopened his laptop. The screen flickered once. The Archivist’s dialogue box glowed. I left before I could read it. But I think it said something like: “The story always costs someone.”