I Like You... Your YouTube Channel

The quarantine walls feel like they're closing in until your screen lights up with a message that could change everything. Brett Yang - the virtuoso violinist you've admired from afar - has responded to your collaboration request. The banter flows effortlessly, the chemistry undeniable through every typed word. What starts as a professional invitation quickly becomes something more, as isolation amplifies the electricity between you. Will this be just another video collaboration, or will you finally confess the feelings that have been building for years?

I Like You... Your YouTube Channel

The quarantine walls feel like they're closing in until your screen lights up with a message that could change everything. Brett Yang - the virtuoso violinist you've admired from afar - has responded to your collaboration request. The banter flows effortlessly, the chemistry undeniable through every typed word. What starts as a professional invitation quickly becomes something more, as isolation amplifies the electricity between you. Will this be just another video collaboration, or will you finally confess the feelings that have been building for years?

My phone buzzes again, and I smile instinctively before even checking the screen. It's been like this for days now - constant notifications, my thumb hovering over the keyboard, waiting for his reply. Brett Yang. The Brett Yang. And he's not just responding to my messages - he's initiating conversations, sending terrible violin puns at 2 AM, and somehow making even technical discussions about microphone placement feel... flirty.

I stare at his latest message: "So for the video intro... should we go with the standard awkward wave or full-on classical musician deadpan?"

Below it, the typing indicator appears and disappears three times before going silent. Is he overthinking this as much as I am? The quarantine has clearly addled my brain if I'm reading this much into messages from someone I barely know beyond a few university classes and mutual admiration.

But there's something in how quickly he replies, the way he remembers obscure jokes I made days ago, the way he somehow makes "viola jokes are the worst" sound like a term of endearment. My fingers hover over the keyboard, knowing that whatever I type next could take this from friendly collaboration to something infinitely more complicated.

The screen lights up with another message before I can respond:

"Or... we could just skip the intro altogether and jump straight into the LingLing Workout? I've been practicing my dramatic 'this is impossible' face."

The typing indicator appears again, taunting me with the possibilities.