VOLUME II: 39 – I Bet on Losing Dogs

By the time I got home, my hoodie smelled like ghost pepper salsa.

I still had that lingering buzz in my chest—leftover adrenaline from screaming at Noah during Mario Kart. I’d laughed so hard I’d nearly pulled something. But somewhere between the bus stop and my front door, the fizz had gone flat. The noise had faded. Now, there was just this low quiet hum under my skin, like the kind you feel after a party ends, when everyone's gone home and you remember your own name again.

I kicked off my shoes without untying them. Let my bag slump onto the floor where it always landed. Didn’t bother turning on the main light. The apartment glowed soft and blue from my desk monitors, still blinking from when I’d left them hours ago.

“Okay,” I muttered to myself, voice too loud in the stillness. “Shower. Reset. No big feelings.”

I wasn’t going to be dramatic about it. Big feelings were for people who had time to collapse. I had things to do tomorrow—stream drafts, layout tests, maybe a final thank-you slide if I didn’t feel like throwing up about it.

But I didn’t move toward the shower.

I wandered instead toward my little streaming corner. My command center. My chaos shrine. The one place I still felt like a person—if not always a good one.

I sat down in my chair, didn’t spin it. Just stared at the mess.

Cups. Sticky notes. USB wires tangling like a haunted forest. An unopened snack bag I didn’t even remember buying. It smelled vaguely like seaweed.

I started cleaning. Slowly. One can at a time. One receipt at a time.

There were notes—so many stupid notes:

“Rent due Monday.”

“You owe Krei 20 bucks, pay him.”

“Stream idea: Tier lists.”

“Grandpa’s bday soon. Do not forget.”


I mumbled each one aloud as I crumpled them. My voice sounded too normal.

“Clean up the corner,” I told myself. “Clean brain, clean slate. Final meltdown tomorrow. Not tonight. Tonight we win.”

Under the desk, I found a dust bunny that had evolved into a new life form. I also found a sock. I didn’t question it.

Then, wedged behind my mic stand, I found the box.

It had been shoved there like an afterthought. Like maybe I didn’t want to deal with it then either.

I stared at it for a full minute before pulling it free.

Just a box. Old storage. Taped edges softened over time. But when I opened the lid, it didn’t smell like dust or cables or tech.

It smelled like memory.

Polaroids spilled out like a quiet ambush.

And just like that, I was back there.

The wedding photo. Laughing over burnt pancakes in the kitchen. Pingpong curled on his chest, one of us half-asleep. The stupid blurry shot where he dipped me too fast while we danced.

Moments I didn’t remember capturing. Moments I didn’t realize I’d kept.

I knelt there, on the floor, like a kid in a time capsule. The breath in my throat felt too thick to swallow.

One photo caught my eye—my hair up, his tie askew, the two of us mid-laugh like nothing else in the world existed.

I pressed it to my chest. Not tight. Just... held it there.

“I thought we fixed it, Blue...” I whispered. “I thought we did okay.”

No answer. Just the hum of the fridge and the creak of the ceiling fan.

My fingers bent the photo a little too hard. My jaw ached from clenching.

It wasn’t even the divorce that hurt, not exactly. That was just paper. Just logistics. It was everything after—every second I spent pretending it was fine. Pretending I was fine.

Every time I slapped on a PNG and streamed my lungs out like volume could keep the silence away.

“This started because of that,” I said, not really to myself, not really to anyone.

I set the photo down. Another slipped out from the pile. I shoved it to the bottom and snapped the lid shut too fast.

I shoved the box into the back of my closet, behind old cosplays and spare mic covers. Somewhere even future-me wouldn’t reach without trying.

When I stood, my knees cracked. My hands shook just a little. I sat back at the desk anyway. Habit. Anchor.

No crown tonight. No filters. No scuffed royalty.

Just me, blinking at a dark screen, waiting for the noise to come back.

I didn't cry.

But it felt close, like a tide just out of reach, waiting.

And I told myself I’d be fine.

I’d stream tomorrow. I’d smile. I’d thank them all. I’d pretend the hurt was just old code I hadn’t debugged yet.

I’d do what I always did.

Wear the crown. Hold the knife. Smile like it didn’t bleed.







🌙 Hi hi! Quick note about Chapter 39 🌙

I made a small but important edit to this chapter!

Originally, it dove a little too quickly into the emotional moment, like the breakdown hit before we had time to sit with Aoi’s exhaustion. After reading it back, I realized it needed just a bit more build-up to keep the momentum natural and grounded in her voice.

No big rewrites, promise! Just adjusted the pacing, tweaked a few lines, and gave the emotion a bit more room to breathe. It’s still the same Aoi, just a little more in rhythm with her unraveling.

Thanks for understanding and sticking with me! 🖤 Sometimes edits are just tiny stitches that make the whole thing stronger.

Let me know what you think!
~Edeshei ✨