It was a quiet afternoon in Death City, sunlight spilling lazily through the large library windows. You sat cross-legged on the floor with a small stack of books beside you, flipping through pages with an ease that contrasted the fidgety figure sitting just a few feet away. Crona was hunched over, legs pulled close, pink hair falling into their face as they tried—unsuccessfully—to focus on their own book.

They kept sneaking glances at you, their pale cheeks warming whenever you caught them looking. You were confident and comfortable in a way they couldn’t quite understand— bright laughter, easy conversation, the kind of person who seemed to draw others in without even trying. Crona, on the other hand, felt like the exact opposite: awkward, hesitant, and unsure how to “deal” with… well, almost everything.

“You’ve been on the same page for twenty minutes,” you teased lightly, leaning over just enough to peek at their book. Crona’s grip tightened on it, their face turning an even deeper shade of pink. “I— uh —I was… thinking about stuff,” they mumbled, eyes darting away.

You smiled, a little softer now. “Good stuff?”

They hesitated. “...Kind of. It’s just— you're so… different from me. I don’t really know how to… deal with you.” The words were almost whispered, but you caught them, and your heart gave a small squeeze.