Side Story (1) - Chapter 1 (Fayne & Milo Focus)
Fayne's desk was cluttered with textbooks, notebooks, and a half-finished cup of tea that had long gone cold. The rest of her room was bathed in shadows, lit only by the soft, flickering glow of her monitor. The air was thick with the quiet hum of her computer, a steady sound that had become a constant companion during her late-night gaming sessions. Outside, the distant rumble of traffic was muffled by the closed windows, and the world beyond her desk seemed to blur into the darkness.
She glanced around her room, taking in the sight of her bed, still unmade from the morning, and the framed photos on her dresser—snapshots of simpler times. A picture of her at her mom's flower shop caught her eye, reminding her of the days she'd spent helping with deliveries, arranging bouquets, her hands stained with pollen. Those moments had felt so far removed from the adrenaline-fueled matches of the tournament. Now, her world felt confined to this small, dimly lit space.
Her hand hovered over the mouse as she queued up for another ranked game. She had been on a hot streak recently, pushing herself to climb out of Emerald I—a rank that had once seemed unattainable. The thought of reaching Diamond sent a thrill through her, but as the game's matchmaking timer started, a strange heaviness settled in her chest.
Why does it feel so empty? she wondered, leaning back in her chair as her eyes traced the swirling graphics on her screen. Emerald I should have felt like an achievement, a stepping stone to greater challenges, yet she couldn't shake the sense of dissatisfaction that clung to her thoughts. Her mind drifted back to the tournament, to the days when the energy in the air had been electric—Raxian's confident commands, Milo's calm suggestions, Sable's occasional banter that cut through the tension, and Raze's laid-back humor that kept them all grounded.
She remembered the rush of adrenaline from those high-stakes matches, the sense of unity they had built, fighting side by side with her team. Even the losses hadn't stung as much back then. There had been something special in knowing they had each other's backs, that they were all pushing toward the same goal. Fayne could almost hear the cheers of the crowd, the echo of their voices mingling with the beat of her racing heart. The feeling of the team's collective energy, the thrill of each victory or the shared disappointment of a loss, was so different from the solitary grind she faced now.
We used to stay up talking for hours after matches, she thought, a faint smile tugging at her lips as she remembered the late-night voice chats. Raxian would dissect every moment of the game, while Milo would throw in calm but insightful observations. Even Sable, with her sarcastic remarks, made the debriefs feel like they were all part of something bigger than themselves. Fayne could still hear Milo's voice in her head, offering a reassuring, "You did well, don't worry about it," whenever she felt she had let the team down.
Now, she was alone again. The only sounds in her room were the faint clicks of her mouse and keyboard, the familiar pop up of the game client as it searched for her next match. She glanced at the time—2:03 AM—another late night spent chasing ranks, and yet all she felt was a growing sense of disconnection.
Her mind wandered to the group chat they had set up after the tournament. It had been active in the beginning, filled with shared memes, game clips, and inside jokes. They would post screenshots of their victories, clips of their best plays, and the occasional message just to check in. Raxian always seemed to have some new strategy to test, and Raze's banter never failed to lighten the mood. But as the weeks passed, the messages had thinned out. Raxian and Raze still posted regularly, discussing their latest ranked conquests or sharing stories about frustrating games. Sable occasionally joined in, mostly to taunt Raxian or challenge him to a rematch, but her presence was as unpredictable as ever.
Fayne's fingers hovered over her phone, scrolling through the chat history. She couldn't remember the last time Milo had chimed in. A pang of guilt twisted in her chest as she realized that she had barely noticed his absence until now. He used to be more active, she thought, recalling how he would share detailed game analysis or even just comment on random things they posted. But lately, his messages had dwindled to almost nothing.
She tapped on Milo's name in the chat, watching the blinking cursor, unsure of what to say. I've been so focused on my own climb, she thought, her brow furrowing as she considered how little effort she had made to keep Milo in the loop. During the tournament, she had leaned on him heavily—counting on his advice, seeking his input on strategies, treating him like the foundation of their team. But once the tournament was over and they all returned to their separate lives, she had allowed herself to drift away, caught up in her own struggles and ambitions.
Her phone buzzed with a new message—another update from Raxian about a recent win. Fayne hesitated, then closed the chat. I should message Milo, she thought, but a knot of uncertainty tightened in her chest. What would I even say? She wasn't sure how to bridge the distance that had grown between them, and the thought of facing his disappointment made her hesitate.
She sighed, leaning forward as the champion select finally loaded up. Her fingers hovered over Seraphine's icon. She hesitated, her cursor wavering. Maybe I should pick something different for a change, she thought, eyeing the icons of Lux and Morgana. But a moment later, she locked in Seraphine, almost without realizing it, her fingers moving on autopilot.
Why do I always end up back here? she wondered, a flicker of frustration tightening in her chest. Support had become her safety net, her comfort role. But as the game loaded in, she couldn't help but feel like she was stuck in a pattern she couldn't break, always playing around others, always slipping back into the background.
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Cities apart, Milo sat hunched over in his cramped apartment, the glow of his computer screen casting long shadows across the messy room. Empty noodle cups and scattered notes littered his desk, mingling with crumpled receipts and unopened mail. The air smelled faintly of stale ramen, a scent he'd grown so accustomed to that he hardly noticed anymore.
He scrolled through the group chat, his tired eyes skimming over the latest messages from Raxian and Raze. They were chatting about their recent games, boasting about reaching new milestones in their ranks. Sable had jumped in briefly, ribbing Raxian about a misplay she had caught during a match. Milo's thumb hovered over the keyboard, considering typing a response, but then he let out a resigned sigh and put his phone down.
What's the point? he thought, running a hand through his messy hair. He hadn't played with any of them in weeks, and the gap between them felt like it was growing wider every day. Raxian and Raze had their own thing going, and Sable's sporadic messages always seemed aimed at stirring up trouble with Raxian more than anything else. Milo's name had become just another inactive member in the group—someone who lurked but rarely engaged.
He glanced at his second monitor, where Fayne's stream was playing. She had reached out to him a few times over the past month, asking for tips on climbing and strategies for solo queue. He had offered advice, walking her through matchups, reviewing replays, and suggesting adjustments to her playstyle. At first, it had felt like a chance to stay connected, a way to keep their friendship alive even as the team drifted apart. But lately, it felt more like he was just another coach for her, providing free lessons without getting much in return.
As he watched her navigate another ranked game as Seraphine, moving in sync with her ADC, a familiar ache settled in his chest. He couldn't help but feel like nothing had changed. She was still playing the supportive role, still doing what she had done during the tournament—always focused on others, always putting someone else first.
She's still stuck playing the same part, he thought, a faint sense of frustration mixing with his sadness. He remembered how Fayne had convinced him to join the tournament team in the first place. "It's for Raxian's sake," she had said back then, her voice carrying a sense of urgency that had made it hard to refuse. He remembered the excitement in her eyes, the way she had spoken about Raxian's potential, about how much it would mean to have Milo's insight and experience on their side.
At the time, Milo had convinced himself that this was his chance to reconnect with Fayne, to be part of something bigger than himself. He had thrown himself into the role of the team's analyst and strategist, hoping to carve out a place for himself alongside them. He spent hours poring over enemy matchups, finding ways to exploit weaknesses, and guiding their team through each difficult game. But as the tournament progressed, it became painfully clear that Fayne's focus was always on Raxian—on helping him reach his potential, on ensuring that he felt supported.
Milo leaned back in his chair, staring up at the ceiling of his apartment, the cracks in the paint forming shapes he knew all too well from countless hours spent staring up at them. It's always about Raxian, he thought, bitterness creeping into his thoughts. If it wasn't for him, Fayne wouldn't have started playing League in the first place.
He closed Fayne's stream with a sharp click of the mouse, the ache in his chest turning into a dull throb. He tried to focus on the replays he had been analyzing—clips of potential clients, strategies to help lower-ranked players improve—but his mind kept drifting back to Fayne, to the memories of their time together during the tournament. He thought about the nights when they had stayed up late, strategizing, laughing about random things, moments when it had felt like they were truly friends again.
But those moments felt distant now, like echoes fading away. Milo's hand clenched into a fist as he fought back the wave of loneliness that swept over him. She probably doesn't even realize how much she's changed, he thought, but even as he said it, he knew that he had changed too. They were both different people than they had been before the tournament, and he couldn't help but wonder if that gap was too wide to bridge.
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Fayne leaned back in her chair, her mind wandering as her champion moved automatically through the early motions of the laning phase. Her focus drifted in and out of the game, and her thoughts circled back to Milo, lingering like a shadow she couldn't quite shake. Have I been neglecting him? she wondered, guilt gnawing at the edges of her mind. She had relied on his guidance so heavily during the tournament—those long nights when they would dissect every game, pouring over replays together, seeking the perfect strategy to bring their team to victory. He had been her rock during those times, offering not just advice but a sense of stability that she had come to depend on.
But after the tournament... She sighed, absently watching as her champion repositioned in lane. I let myself drift away, she admitted silently. It had been so easy to get caught up in the thrill of climbing, to focus on her own journey, that she hadn't realized how much she had let other connections slip away. She thought back to the times she had messaged Milo in the past few months—each conversation playing back in her mind like scenes from a half-forgotten movie. Most of them were about the game, simple questions like, "What should I do in this matchup?" or, "Any tips for improving my vision control?"
There was a hollowness to those interactions now that she couldn't ignore. He probably thinks I only reach out when I need something, she thought, and the realization made her stomach twist. It was true—most of their recent conversations had been about gameplay tips or advice on matchups, transactional exchanges that lacked the warmth they once shared. When was the last time I asked how he was doing? She struggled to remember a time when she had taken a genuine interest in his life beyond the game, and the thought made her chest tighten with regret.
She could still picture Milo's face during the tournament—focused, thoughtful, but with a hint of a smile that he would let slip during their inside jokes. He had always listened to her, even when she rambled about things unrelated to League. Now, she realized that she had barely scratched the surface of what he might be feeling, too absorbed in her own ambitions to notice. The guilt deepened, settling like a weight on her shoulders.
As she performed a roam to the midlane after their first back, Fayne felt a pang of frustration tightening her chest. Why am I always playing this role? she asked herself, glancing at the minimap as she landed her root on the enemy midlaner, securing a kill for her Yasuo. It was so automatic, so ingrained, that she barely thought about it anymore. I keep slipping back into the same pattern, she thought bitterly, a flicker of anger turning inward. It was like she couldn't escape the role she had assigned herself—both in the game and in life. Always the support, always playing to lift others up.
The realization stung, cutting deeper than she had expected. Even now, as I climb the ranks, I'm still doing the same thing—playing around others, making sure they succeed. She wondered if she was afraid to step out of that comfort zone, to play for herself rather than always being the safety net for others. She thought about Milo again—how much he had pushed her to be better, to aim higher—and a wave of shame washed over her. Maybe I've been so focused on helping Raxian, on proving myself, that I've lost sight of the people who really mattered along the way.
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Milo stared at the flickering cursor on his screen, the words of his notes blurring together as he struggled to focus. He had spent the better part of the evening analyzing replays, jotting down strategies and observations for a few clients who had reached out for coaching. But his thoughts kept drifting back to Fayne, to the messages that had become increasingly one-sided over the past few weeks. What do I even gain from this? he asked himself, his frustration simmering just below the surface. He had been happy to help her at first—there had been a small sense of satisfaction in knowing that he could offer her something useful. It felt like a way to keep their connection alive, even if their conversations had become more distant.
But now, it felt different. It felt like he was just another coach in her life, someone to call on when she needed a quick tip or advice on a tricky matchup. She probably doesn't even think twice about it, he thought, bitterness seeping into his mind. The realization stung more than he wanted to admit, a sharp reminder of how things had changed since the tournament.
His mind wandered back to a particular moment from those tournament days—a memory that still stung. He had spent hours the night before coming up with a new strategy, something he thought could turn the tide in their favor. He remembered pulling Fayne aside, his voice eager as he shared his ideas, breaking down the nuances of the play he had in mind. "If we position like this, we can bait out their cooldowns and turn the fight," he had explained, his excitement bubbling over as he watched her expression for a sign of understanding.
But then, Raxian had joined them, his usual confident grin in place. "Fayne, I think we should focus on my lane pressure early. If I get ahead, I can roam and turn the game around." Fayne's attention had shifted instantly, her eyes lighting up as she nodded along with Raxian's plan. "Yeah, that makes sense! Let's do that." Her enthusiasm had been directed entirely at Raxian, and Milo's words had faded into the background, forgotten in an instant. He had swallowed back the frustration then, telling himself that it wasn't a big deal—that it was for the team's sake.
But deep down, that moment had left a mark, a small crack in his confidence that had only widened over time. It wasn't just about the strategy or the game—it was about being seen, being heard, being valued for what he brought to the table. And that feeling of being sidelined, of watching from the edges while Fayne poured all her energy into supporting someone else, had lingered ever since. It was always about Raxian.
Milo's hand tightened around the mouse, the plastic creaking under his grip as he fought back the wave of bitterness that rose up inside him. What do we even have in common anymore? he wondered, a sense of loneliness settling in his chest like a cold weight. Before League had taken over, they had shared long conversations about everything—about life, about dreams, about things that had nothing to do with ranks or strategies. He remembered nights when they talked about their favorite movies, the shows they were binge-watching, or even just their thoughts on the future. There was a time when their friendship felt easy, uncomplicated, built on a foundation that went beyond gaming.
Now, it felt like all of that had been replaced by games and replays, by goals that didn't include him. He couldn't remember the last time they had talked about something other than League, couldn't remember the last time she had asked him how he was doing. Maybe she doesn't care to know anymore, he thought, the words leaving a sour taste in his mouth.
He let out a frustrated sigh, running a hand through his hair, ruffling the messy strands even further. She probably doesn't even realize how much she's changed. But even as the thought crossed his mind, a pang of self-awareness struck him. He knew that he had changed too—becoming more withdrawn, more closed off, as if putting up walls might protect him from the disappointment that had settled in his chest. They were both different people than they had been before the tournament, and he couldn't help but wonder if that gap was too wide to bridge.
Maybe it's easier for her this way, he thought, turning back to his notes, though his mind remained elsewhere. Maybe it's easier to keep me at a distance, to think of me as just another tool to help her climb. The thought lingered, heavy and bitter, as he closed the notes with a sharp click. The room seemed colder than before, the quiet hum of his computer failing to drown out the ache that had settled into his bones.