Between Screens and Hearts

Introduction: Thoughts, Identity, Self

The cool breeze of the early evening slipped through the narrow gap in the window, brushing lightly against the back of Dean Rivero's neck. He sat on the edge of his bed, staring blankly at the wall, where the light from the setting sun cast a faint orange glow. The long sleeves of his dark gray turtleneck felt heavy on his skin, as though the fabric was a part of the weight that clung to his chest.

This silence... it always felt like it had something to say, yet the words were elusive, slipping away just as they were on the tip of his tongue.

How long had it been since he'd allowed himself to truly feel something?

Dean ran a hand through his slightly curled black hair, fingers brushing over the strands of white that stubbornly remained at the back of his head—reminders of who he was, of what he had been through. He'd been told it was stress, maybe genetics, but deep down, he knew. It was more than that. The white strands were an echo of the things he kept hidden, bottled up for so long they had manifested in a physical form, screaming what he never dared to admit out loud. His hand dropped into his lap, his pale fingers curling into a fist as memories of the past began to surface.

They always did, in these quiet moments. Like an endless reel, they played in his mind—the times he trusted too easily, the friends he thought he had, only for them to use him and disappear when he needed them most. Faces that were once familiar now blurred in his memory, distant and hollow.

He shook his head, trying to banish the thoughts, but they lingered like shadows at the corners of his mind. The flicker of betrayal, the sting of loneliness—it was always the same story. He had trusted, let people in, and each time, they left him more fractured than before.

"Pathetic," Dean whispered to himself, his voice soft and bitter.

That was how he saw himself—weak, unskilled, unworthy. No matter what others said, no matter how well he performed academically, that feeling of inadequacy clung to him like a second skin. It wasn't that he didn't know he was capable; he did. He just couldn't shake the belief that everyone else was better, that he was always lagging behind. In a world where others soared, Dean felt like he was barely treading water.

And yet... he had adapted. He always did. To the world, to people, to their expectations. He wore the mask of the responsible, intelligent student. The calm, collected tutor. He wore it so well that even he began to forget who the real Dean Rivero was beneath it all.

It wasn't like he had any choice. The world didn't need to know about the Dean who spent most of his days in his room, scribbling in notebooks he'd never show anyone, pretending to be someone else. They didn't need to know about 'Epitaph'—the faceless voice actor with a deep baritone voice that commanded attention on TikTak. They didn't need to know about 'Finale,' the writer who spun stories of love, horror, and fantasy on LayRead, leaving behind incomplete worlds for readers to imagine. No one needed to know about the nights spent talking into the void, putting on a mask that was different from the one he wore during the day.

It was easier that way.

Dean exhaled deeply, leaning back against the headboard, his eyes tracing the ceiling as if it held answers. His mind drifted back to the years he spent in the Juvenile Rehabilitation Facility. Eleven months of facing a version of himself he hated—an angry, reckless boy who lashed out because he didn't know how to handle the pain. A boy who made a mistake that cost him nearly everything.

But he was different now. Or at least, that's what he told himself. The truth was harder to grasp. Sometimes, he felt like that angry boy was still there, waiting just beneath the surface. He swallowed, his throat tight, the memories from those days flickering across his mind like static.

The sound of his phone vibrating on the bedside table cut through the haze of his thoughts. Dean glanced at it, the screen lighting up with a notification from TikTak. A message from one of his followers—nothing important, just another comment about his voice.

Epitaph, you have the most incredible voice, so deep and soothing. When are you streaming again?

Dean stared at the message for a moment before locking the screen. It was strange, wasn't it? How people admired a voice they didn't even know belonged to him. The real Dean.

The thought stirred something within him, a kind of wistful longing. What would it be like to truly connect with someone, to let them see him as he was—not as 'Epitaph,' not as the guy who tutored on the side, not as the good son who argued with his mother over their differing beliefs. Just Dean. The thought felt dangerous, though, like allowing someone too close would mean losing control over the carefully crafted walls he'd built.

His eyes drifted to the mirror across the room, where his reflection stared back at him. His dark hazel eyes, the ones people often described as cold or serious, met his gaze. There was no judgment there, just the same emptiness he'd grown used to.

"Maybe I'll figure it out one day," Dean muttered, the weight in his chest growing heavier.

He stood up, reaching for his brown jacket draped over the chair. His facemask lay next to it, neatly folded. Another layer of protection between him and the world outside. He picked it up, running his thumb over the fabric before slipping it on. It matched his outfit, of course. It always did.

As he moved to the door, Dean hesitated for a moment. He wasn't sure where he was going, just that he couldn't stay in this room any longer. The walls felt like they were closing in, suffocating him with the memories and the silence.

Maybe, out there, in the noise of the world, he could drown out the voices in his head. At least for a little while.

With a deep breath, he stepped out into the fading light, the air cool against his skin. And just like that, Dean Rivero—Epitaph, Finale, whoever he needed to be—disappeared behind the mask once more.