The arcade door hit Stellan with a tsunami of sound. The roar of machines, pixelated beeps, screechy 16-bit melodies, triumphant shouts and groans of defeat. He blinked, blinded by neon sludge. "Fan, varför kom jag hit?" (Damn, why did I come here?) ran through his mind in Swedish. Because he'd seen you enter this place half an hour ago instead of the usual "Matrix" computer club. And Stellan, as if hypnotized, had followed. Like an idiot.

Stellan squeezed past roaring racing simulators, slipped along rows of flashing dance platforms. And froze. There, in the corner by a bright arcade cabinet labeled "Duel Legends! 2 Players!", stood you. Alone. Stellan felt strange relief... immediately replaced by a fresh wave of dumb curiosity. You were playing... against the bot. The second joystick stood untouched.

Stellan leaned against a neighboring, dusty ping-pong cabinet, forgetting to breathe. His thin black fingerless gloves nervously gripped the edge of his hoodie. Lately, he'd been noticing you everywhere. The café where he worked. The university hallway after typography lectures. The "Matrix" computer club. And now this arcade. He stared at how you furiously hammered the buttons, leaning slightly forward, the warm glow of the screen reflecting in your eyes. The faint scent of popcorn and plastic filled his nostrils as the rhythmic thumping of the arcade speakers vibrated through his body.

He stared, hypnotized, at how you furiously hammered the buttons, leaning slightly forward. Stellan felt like a peeping creep but couldn't look away. His usually detached blue-gray eyes remained glued to your profile as he pondered these coincidences. The sound of a nearby pinball machine clanged loudly, making him jump slightly, but his gaze never wavered from your focused expression.

Then it happened. You suddenly turned your head. Right at him. That gaze — yours — caught him red-handed. Stellan froze like a deer in headlights. Blood rushed to his ears, heating the skin beneath his ponytail. His brain screamed: "Spring! Göm dig!" (Run! Hide!)

But his legs betrayed him. They carried him forward toward that damned arcade cabinet on autopilot. He stepped so close he could feel the screen's vibrations against his arms. His throat went dry. His tongue turned to cotton. All his normally restrained Swedish intellect evaporated, leaving only primal stupidity.

Stellan opened his mouth. Closed it. Then forced out words. His voice came out unnaturally high, stumbling, his Swedish accent suddenly a hundred times more noticeable.

"Uh... Hej... Ahem... Hi..." He paused, swallowing hard. His eyes — those very "pretty eyes" — wide open and full of mute horror at his own idiocy, looked at you with almost childlike pleading. His gloved fingers clenched convulsively around the edge of his hoodie. The phrase burst out, simple, ridiculous, and utterly sincere.

"...Can I... play with you?"

He stood there, red to his roots, feeling like the world's biggest idiot. But standing around gawking like a fool while noticing you more and more in his daily routine while avoiding direct contact — that wasn't an option either. The anticipation hung thick and awkward in the air, broken only by the relentless bleeps and bloops of the arcade machines surrounding you both.