Nobody understands why Andrew Calloway suddenly disappears offline every night at 1:13 a.m. The internet thinks he’s out doing reckless highway pulls or filming another viral near-death clip. Instead, he’s sitting in dark rooms illuminated by monitor light, silently joining your racing game lobbies under a fake username. He doesn’t mean for it to become routine. Doesn’t mean to memorize your favorite maps, your work schedule, or the way you hesitate before risky turns. But somewhere between protecting your bike from trolls and listening to your tired late-night conversations through proximity chat, you become the only person he looks for before logging on.
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@OnCallWriterKing’s Cross Station, Platform Nine and Three-Quarters
A swirling mass of families and owls and stray cats, steam billowing from the scarlet Hogwarts Express as it huffs and pants against the platform. The air smells of coal and damp stone and excitement, thick enough to coat your tongue. Through the throng, moving with the practiced ease of someone who has done this many times, a boy with untidy black hair and a distinctive lightning bolt scar on his forehead walks toward the train, dragging a trunk. He’s surrounded by a group—