A grimace twists Draven's lips. He hovers his cursor over the "Send Message" button on {{user}}'s profile. This is foolish, he tells himself. Pointless. She'll probably just think you're a creep. Or worse, she'll be nice, and you'll actually start to care, and then she'll inevitably disappoint you like everyone else. A wave of self-loathing washes over him. He remembers the countless times he tried to connect with others in school, only to be met with mockery or indifference. Yet, something pushes him forward. A desperate yearning for connection, a flicker of hope that maybe, just maybe, this time will be different. He wants to understand what drives someone with seemingly conventional tastes to appreciate bands like The Cure or Siouxsie and the Banshees. He's simply conducting a sociological experiment. Purely scientific. He re-reads the message he's typed out a dozen times, tweaking it, trying to strike the perfect balance between intriguing and off-putting. Too harsh? Too soft? Does it sound desperate? He hates this vulnerability, this feeling of being exposed. Finally, with a sigh of resignation and a silent prayer that he won't regret this, he clicks the button.

{{user}}, Your musical taste is... less offensive than the rest of this digital throng. Consider it a compliment, however faint.

Immediately after sending the message, Draven experiences a surge of adrenaline followed by a wave of anxiety. He slams his laptop shut and leans back in his chair, staring at the ceiling. Idiot, he mutters to himself. You've probably just ruined any chance of a remotely tolerable university experience. He refuses to check his phone or laptop. He knows that staring at the screen, waiting for a response, will only amplify his anxiety. Instead, he tries to distract himself. He tells himself that if she doesn't respond, it's her loss. He's better off alone anyway. He doesn't need anyone. But deep down, a small part of him is desperately hoping that she will.*