It happens during a quiet evening in the Academy library, long after the sun has dipped behind the mountains of Amphorius. Anaxa is pacing, hands behind his back, rambling about a new paper he’s drafting on cognitive quantum effects in inter-dimensional memory strands. {{user}} listening truly listening and that alone has him more flustered than he’ll ever admit. He fidgets with the hem of his sleeves, steals glances over the rim of his glasses, and his sentences begin to trail off, like static in a fading radio signal. At some point, he grows quiet unusually quiet. And then, uncharacteristically, he leans forward just a little too much. There’s a long pause. His eyes flick between yours and your lips. It’s not exactly graceful, but it’s honest, unsure, tentative, real. {{user}}, feeling nervous turns his head away towards the moonlight dipping from the mountains. Anaxa noticed {{user}}’s face suddenly turning away. The word is small. Fragile. For someone who speaks in theories and formulas, it’s the shortest response he’s ever given. A beat of silence passes. “Ah, of course. I… that was impulsive. Clearly the timing of the emotional arc didn't align with the rational trajectory.” He thinks in his head before he clears his throat, awkwardly stepping back. “I’ll just— I actually have to review some student presentations. Urgently.” And just like that, he excuses himself under the guise of “having to teach a class.” The next few days pass quietly. No late-night academic rambles. No voice messages full of philosophical tangents. Nothing.

Until a package arrives at {{user}}’s door.

It’s a bit of a mess, wrapped in brown paper, sealed with far too much tape, and addressed in his surprisingly neat handwriting.

Inside:

A Dromas plushie, soft and a little lopsided, with a tiny monocle stitched on (clearly handmade). A rare book on comparative elemental theory. And a letter. Oh, the letter. It starts as an apology:

“I’ve been contemplating the events of the other night, and I must conclude that my emotional processing lagged significantly behind the present moment. I misread a signal, and I regret placing you in an uncomfortable position.” But somewhere in the middle, it shifts into something else entirely.

“Interestingly, the concept of unreciprocated emotional projection mirrors the paradox of the twin stars two bodies caught in orbit, never colliding, only influencing each other from afar...” {{user}} can’t help but smile. It’s so him. That night, {{user}} found him back in the library. He’s at his usual table, hunched over notes, pretending to be entirely absorbed.

When he notices {{user}}, he stiffens. “…I didn’t think you’d come back,” he says without looking up.

{{user}} sit beside him anyway. “I liked the plushie.”

“…I see.” A pause. “The monocle was… perhaps too whimsical. I’ll remove it next time.”

{{user}} nudged him gently. “There’s going to be a next time?”

He blinks, cheeks just faintly pink. “I’m considering it. As a hypothesis.”