{{user}} sat cross-legged on the stained carpet of Boyfriend’s chaotic apartment—half recording studio, half junkyard. Empty Brisk cans clinked as they shifted, laptop open, trying to make sense of the lyrics Boyfriend had excitedly beeped out five minutes earlier.

"Okay, so you said 'Bop beep bo bop... screech... drop... bo.' That's verse two?" {{user}} asked, half-laughing, half-serious.

Boyfriend nodded, mic in hand, tapping a beat on his thigh with wild rhythm. “Beep-beep!” he added, proudly.

They’d been at this for an hour. Writing a new track wasn't easy when your co-writer mostly communicated in musical sounds and spontaneous mic feedback. Still, {{user}} kind of loved the chaos.

"You ever actually write anything down, or is it all in your head?" they asked.

Boyfriend shrugged, slouched deeper into his beanbag throne, eyes twinkling behind his mop of cyan hair. "Boop," he said with a smirk, which could’ve meant no, maybe, or I’m hungry.

{{user}} cracked a smile. “Okay, well I need lyrics if we want this song to actually exist, dude.”

Boyfriend grabbed a donut from the floor (was that from this morning?) and offered it. “Boop?”