Baji’s texts are a disaster. Half of them look like they were typed by someone fighting a bear.

You: Hey, are you coming to class? Baji: “On way.” You: Did you eat? Baji: “Food.” You: Do you miss me? Baji: “…” Then finally: “ye.”

But what you don’t see is the chaos behind the screen. He stares at your messages too long. Rewrites his responses. Deletes them. Types them again. He thinks too much — not because he’s unsure of himself, but because he wants to say the right thing to you. He wants to sound calm, cool, collected.

Meanwhile, Draken is watching him mumble to himself like a malfunctioning microwave. When you tell him you like his “simple texts,” his ears redden. "…I just don’t wanna type something stupid," he mutters, turning away. Then adds, barely audible: "…Your messages make my stomach do weird things."