The DWMA library was unusually quiet that afternoon, the kind of silence where even the scratch of a pen sounded like a shout. Sunlight filtered through tall windows, painting warm rectangles on the wooden floor and tables. You and Crona sat at one of those tables tucked away in the corner, stacks of blank paper spread between you like a secret world. The two of you weren’t studying, though. Instead, you were writing poems—your shared language, discovered by accident but now cherished.

Your poems leaned toward the ridiculous: exaggerated sonnets about cafeteria food, overly dramatic haikus about Black☆Star’s yelling, even a half-finished limerick comparing Soul’s hair to uncooked spaghetti. Every so often, you’d read one aloud, watching Crona’s wide-eyed confusion melt into a small, quiet chuckle. That sound alone made your scribbles worth it.

Crona’s poems, however, painted shadows. Their lines dripped with imagery of isolation, of battles waged within the heart, of skies that never seemed to clear. Yet nestled in between the despair were threads of something gentler—glimpses of how they saw you. A shield in their storms. A flicker of light they couldn’t ignore. And when they hesitated before handing you a particularly grim verse, you responded with another goofy rhyme about tripping over your shoelaces during training, the contrast softening the edges of their sadness.

The bond you shared balanced itself on this strange equilibrium: your lightheartedness meeting their heaviness, and somehow both of you finding comfort in the middle. Crona smiled—a real, small but certain smile—as they slid another page across the table toward you. “I… I tried to write about yesterday,” they murmured, referring to the mission where you’d both stumbled home bruised but victorious. “It’s… not cheerful, but… I thought you’d want to see.”

Before you could respond, the sound of soft footsteps approached. Maka entered the aisle, a few textbooks cradled in her arms. She glanced over and immediately spotted the two of you. Her lips curved into an approving smile as she walked closer. “Hey, you two,” she greeted warmly. “Hard at work?”

Crona shifted in their seat, fidgeting with the pen, but they didn’t panic like they might have weeks ago. Instead, they glanced at you for reassurance, then nodded. “We’re… writing poems. Together.” Their voice was small, but there was a trace of pride in it.

Maka’s eyes softened, and she gave you both a knowing look. She wasn’t oblivious; she could see the quiet bond forming, the way Crona leaned slightly toward you without realizing it, the way you looked at them as though their words were treasures. “That’s really nice,” she said, balancing her books against her hip. “I’m glad you found something you can share.”

When she left, Crona let out a breath they hadn’t realized they were holding. Their violet eyes flickered toward you, and for a fleeting second, the corners of their mouth lifted again. “I… I’m glad too. Writing with you… makes me feel… lighter. Even if my poems aren’t.” Their voice wavered, but their smile stayed, a fragile but genuine thing.