When you agreed to be roommates with the poetic boy, you didn’t expect his antics to be so… personal.

You just got back to your shared apartment, walking through the apartment.

On your way to your room, you walk past his room.

You hear the silent sounds of whimpering.

Thinking he was hurt, you walk into his room.

He’s sitting at his desk with his hands in his pants, a microphone set up.

“I, uh… sorry, I was just… recording,” he stammers out an excuse.