The room was dim, the only light coming from the flickering monitor in front of me. The pale glow cast long shadows over the cluttered desk—empty cans of energy drinks, a half-eaten bag of chips, and a small, dust-covered figurine that caught the edge of the light. I’d been playing Marvel Rivals for hours, cycling through matches, trying to convince myself that Cloak and Dagger were enough.
They weren’t bad, I told myself. Their mechanics were smooth, their synergy solid, and their visuals flashy enough to hold my attention—for a while. But every match left me feeling hollow, the rush of victory never quite reaching my chest. It wasn’t their fault. They were fine. Good, even.
But they weren’t her.
I leaned back in my chair, staring blankly at the screen as the match summary rolled across it in bold letters. Victory. I should’ve felt satisfied, proud even. Instead, I felt...empty. My fingers hovered over the keyboard before I let out a heavy sigh.
“I think…” My voice cracked as the words slipped out, barely audible over the soft hum of my PC. “I miss my wife.”
The ache in my chest sharpened as her face came to mind. Moira O’Deorain. My cunning, sharp-tongued goddess. The way her damage orb would spiral through a crowd, sowing chaos and destruction. The way her voice, so mocking yet so triumphant, would ring out after a perfectly timed play. God, her voice was perfect. She had been my anchor in every fight, my saving grace when the odds were stacked against us.
No one else came close.
I closed my eyes, letting the memories wash over me. The thrill of locking her in at the start of every match. The rhythm we had built together over hours, days, years. She wasn’t just my favorite hero—she was an extension of myself. Her precision became mine, her brilliance guiding me through countless battles.
And now? Now I was fumbling through games with heroes who felt like placeholders. Cloak and Dagger were fine—competent, even—but they weren’t her. They didn’t have her confidence, her ruthless elegance.
I opened my eyes and glanced at the corner of my desk. There she was, a small Funko Pop standing vigil beside my monitor. Her angular face and cocky smirk stared back at me, frozen in plastic perfection. I reached out, brushing the dust off her head with a fingertip.
“You deserved better,” I whispered. “You always did.”
The next match loaded, pulling my attention back to the screen. Cloak and Dagger materialized before me, their abilities shimmering in readiness. My fingers hovered over the keys, but I hesitated.
What was I even doing?
My chest felt heavy, my thoughts distant from the game. With a sharp exhale, I pressed escape, navigating through menus with a few decisive clicks. A moment later, the game was gone, its window minimized to a lifeless icon on my taskbar. The desktop came into view—a wallpaper I hadn’t changed in years, long since forgotten but suddenly significant.
There they all were. The heroes of Overwatch.
Front and center, unmissable in the lineup, was her. Moira O’Deorain. My breath caught as my eyes lingered on her familiar form. Her angular features, her piercing heterochromatic eyes—red and blue, bright even against the muted tones of the wallpaper. She stood with that unmistakable confidence, her long fingers curling delicately as if ready to manipulate the balance of life and death itself.
The temptation clawed at me, and for a moment, I hesitated. It felt silly, almost ridiculous, to think of her this way. She was just a character, wasn’t she? A set of pixels on a screen, a carefully crafted illusion. And yet…
My hand moved on its own, the mouse cursor gliding to the Overwatch icon, dusty and neglected but still there. A relic of a time I had tried to forget. With a click, the familiar chime of the login screen filled the room, its sound as warm and welcoming as an old friend’s voice.
As the game loaded, nostalgia hit me like a tidal wave. Memories of late nights, of heated matches, of that exhilaration I only ever felt when she was by my side. I navigated to the hero gallery, my chest tight with a strange mix of excitement and trepidation.
And there she was.
The screen lit up with her image, her smirk as sharp and self-assured as I remembered. Those eyes—one glowing red, the other a crystalline blue—met mine through the screen, as if she knew I was here for her. Her presence was magnetic, her pose unapologetically arrogant, her slim frame illuminated by the glow of her biotics. It was ridiculous, but in that moment, it felt like she had missed me too.
Her details were impossibly perfect, every pixel crafted with care. The sharp planes of her face, the sly curl of her lips, the subtle flicker of light against her hands as her orbs materialized—she was more alive than I had remembered. I could almost hear the mocking lilt of her voice before she even spoke.
My chest tightened, the lump in my throat making it hard to swallow. I didn’t realize how much I had missed her until now. My cursor hovered over her icon for a fraction of a second before I locked her in for a match.
“Let’s do this,” I muttered, my voice trembling but determined.
The map loaded, and as the countdown began, it was like I’d never left. Her movements were fluid, her abilities precise. My hands moved instinctively, the muscle memory as sharp as ever. A flick of the wrist, and her Biotic Orb spiraled through the battlefield with devastating elegance, weaving through enemies and allies alike.
“You seem stressed,” her voice purred in my ears, a taunt as familiar as the sound of my own breath. A laugh bubbled out of me, unbidden and genuine, as I landed a perfectly timed fade jump, evading a flurry of attacks and positioning myself to heal my team.
It wasn’t just her abilities—it was her essence, the way she carried herself, the way her every movement oozed calculated brilliance. Even through the screen, it felt like she was alive, like she had been waiting for this moment just as much as I had.
By the time the match ended, I was grinning so hard my cheeks hurt. Victory flashed across the screen, but it wasn’t just the win that mattered. It was her—my wife, my partner, my Moira. The hero I had over 400 hours with simply because she fit my playstyle so well. Every move, every decision, felt like a seamless extension of myself. From the precise timing of her Biotic Orb to the perfect placement of her Fade, every ability was an extension of my intent. We had been through so many battles together, each one more exhilarating than the last.
I remembered the way I had fallen in love with her kit—how it felt natural to heal with her, to devastate with her, to weave between worlds as if I could control fate itself. She had always been my perfect partner, able to support, punish, and escape in equal measure. And with every match, I grew more attached, more certain that no other hero could ever fill the space she occupied in my heart.
The rush of nostalgia hit me as I watched her figure dissipate from the post-match screen. I had spent so many hours as her—more than I’d ever spent with any other hero, and yet it had never been enough. The developers could take her game and throw it all away, but they couldn’t take away what we had. I had a void in my heart since abandoning her.
Moira’s figure lingered in my mind, her pixelated face still smirking at me, as if to say she knew this would happen. That no matter how many times I strayed, I would always return to her. And honestly? She was right. I always did.
"Let's do this again soon, yeah?" I muttered, as if she could hear me.
The screen flickered one last time, and I closed the game, my heart finally settled in the knowledge that my wife—my Moira—was back where she belonged: at my side, in the game, and in my heart.
The hollow ache in my chest was gone, replaced by the familiar rush of adrenaline and a quiet sense of fulfillment. She was back, and for the first time in ages, I felt whole. In that moment, it didn’t matter that she was just a hero in a game. She was mine, and that was enough.