I Would Never Like Him Sincerely (1)
I wrapped up the broadcast with my body completely limp.
“That’s all for today. Thank you for watching, everyone.”
With my body melted into a puddle, I announced the end of the stream to the viewers. After the spy game wrapped up, we’d played a light action-casual party fighter called Animal Party together. It was the perfect collab game—cute animal characters knocking one another off a colorful field. We split into three teams of two, and once again Arine and I paired up to take the final point victory.
I wondered if slapstick really suited my broadcast style. There had been plenty of hilarious moments during Animal Party. The fact that Arine kept laughing so hard at me that she fell off the stage multiple times was proof enough.
“It’s a little shorter than usual, but we still went over eight hours. As you all know, I was ridiculously nervous because it was a collab. I loosened up a bit midway through, but right now I’m completely drained. Talking with multiple people at once during a group collab really sucks the life out of you…”
It’s the same as stepping onto a real stage. Even if you don’t do much, after a few hours your energy just plummets. When you stay in a state of extreme tension for too long, your stamina gives out fast. On top of that, I almost never did collabs, and this was my first multi-person one, so the toll was even worse.
“At this point I don’t think I can keep the energy up anyway, so I’m going to get some sleep and see you all tomorrow. That sounds better for you guys too, right?”
Some viewers protested, demanding I keep going, while others accepted it. No one was truly angry. It was the usual playful wrestling match in the chat. Assuming they’d understood, I finished my goodbye and clicked the end-stream button. The camera went dark and I closed OBS.
To cool my body that had grown hot from forcing high energy the whole time, I cracked open the small window. Outside it was already dawn. The cold winter air slipped into the room, making me shiver.
That was when it happened. With a familiar ding, a Discord DM arrived.
It sounded like she was checking on someone who’d just left a drinking party. Yoo Harin had sent me a message. Yoo Harin was Arine’s real name. Maybe this was the greatest achievement of my streaming career. I had added the famous Arine as a Discord friend.
Even if I quit streaming tomorrow, I could spend the rest of my life telling people I’d been friends with her. Not that I had any friends to drink with.
When I answered playfully, Harin responded with a delighted laugh. The more we did this, the more I wanted to keep making her laugh. At its core, streaming was a job I started because I wanted to entertain people. Whether it was one person or thousands, making someone laugh felt equally good.
…But why was she contacting me? The collab was over. Our connection should have ended there. Well, if she actually liked me, she might suggest another collab, but I couldn’t figure out why she’d send a private message after we’d already said proper goodbyes on stream.
Maybe she really was going to suggest another collab…? A strange sense of anticipation rose inside me. I would welcome any collab with Arine. Beyond the obvious benefit of appearing with a top-tier streamer, I genuinely felt like we clicked. Her clean hosting skills and natural broadcasting talent also made things comfortable for whoever she worked with.
Today had been the perfect example. When I was frozen with nerves at the start of the collab, she was the one who gently eased me through it. Without her, my first collab with the big leagues might have been a disaster.
The earlier part of her message vanished from my mind, replaced by those words. They thought I was fun? I didn’t think I’d ruined the stream, but I certainly hadn’t carried it either. I’d mostly just ridden the stable flow and clean banter the big streamers provided. At best, they created the waves and I surfed on them.
I kept my replies as calm as possible, but the emotions boiling inside me were anything but. My hands started trembling without me realizing it. Even when viewers told me I was funny, it had never felt this good. Of course it was important for the customers—my viewers—to enjoy the stream, but this praise came from industry professionals. And not just any professionals—the ones sitting at the very top.
Those people had acknowledged that I was entertaining. Sure, Arine had said I was fun too, but that was one person’s opinion. Maybe I just happened to fit her taste perfectly. This was different. This was objective proof that my streaming skills were legitimately good. Even if it was just polite formality, why would they lie about it when I wasn’t even in the room? They had no reason to watch what they said around me.
…Yeah. Those people were wrong.
For three years I had worked incredibly hard, and no one had ever acknowledged it.
Both my father and Seoyeon had said those things to me. That my efforts were worthless. That I had no talent for streaming, so everything I was doing was nothing but a waste of time.
But now, the people in the industry had finally acknowledged my talent. They said I was fun. Even if it was empty flattery, I wanted to believe it. So the effort I had poured out all this time hadn’t been meaningless after all. Maybe those three young years I had poured my entire life into had finally lifted someone with no natural sense for broadcasting to this point. If I truly had no talent like they said, then perhaps the talent I was showing now had been created through training.
The thought sent an electric thrill through my mind. That was how sweet the recognition of industry experts felt to me right now. With this one piece of validation, this single spark of hope, I felt like I could endure this same difficult life for several more years.
I barely managed to stop the corners of my mouth from rising uncontrollably when the next question arrived. It was a strange thing to ask. Did top-tier streamers usually provide after-service like this? Weren’t impressions from a collab usually given on the stream itself? Was it normal to share personal feedback like this?
…Maybe this was why Arine’s collabs were so popular. If streamers exchanged feedback after the stream, they could catch things they missed while live. If that was her intention, she really was an incredibly meticulous streamer. Especially if she was willing to ask for the opinion of a small-time hako like me.
“…The big leagues really are on another level,” I muttered, impressed, and continued typing.
If that was the purpose, then I needed to give proper feedback. But no matter how hard I racked my brain, actual broadcast feedback didn’t come easily. The best I could squeeze out was this.
Most of it was praise for her and the collab. Which made sense, really. A novice cook watching a master chef can only say one thing: Chef, you’re incredible. How did you make something like this? The difference in skill between her and me was that obvious.
If we were talking about debts, there were plenty. From inviting me to the collab in the first place, to believing in and cheering for an inexperienced broadcaster like me, to helping me with perfect timing so I wouldn’t get too nervous.
When I honestly expressed my impressions and gratitude, Arine went silent for a moment. Then, after a short pause, she replied.
Anything else? I couldn’t understand what she was getting at. Was there some specific answer she was hoping for? If there was something she wanted to hear, I wanted to say it, but I was too dense to figure it out.
Confirmation process? I didn’t understand what she meant. What exactly was she confirming?
While I was racking my brain trying to figure it out, Arine dropped something even more shocking on me.
It was surprising enough that Arine had something personal to say to me. Since she had looked out for me this much, I was ready to help her with anything I could.
I answered with eager energy, and then—