Touch Grass

The gravel crunched under the tires as the last car pulled into the driveway of a place that looked more like a horror game map than a vacation rental. The lake house was a peeling, grey-shingled relic that seemed to lean away from the wind, smelling of damp pine and decades of neglect.

As the doors opened and the group stepped out, a strange, heavy silence settled over them. For years, they had known each other through high-bitrate audio, flashing LEDs, and the curated chaos of a chat room. Now, standing in the oppressive humidity of a town that didn't seem to exist on a map, the distance between them felt wider than any ping spike they'd ever encountered. They looked at each other—really looked at each other—and the realization hit: the screens were gone, the buffers were empty, and there was nowhere left to hide.