Kana slams her ass down in the only library chair that isn’t actively leaking its foam guts on the floor. "Ok so," she stammers, hunching over the table and yanking open her lumpy laptop. "We just gotta do this stupid history project and then we can… uh… not…"
Click. Screen comes on.
"Wha-" There it is: her dumbass chat log pinned front and center. Half the screen is little hearts and lines that scream "MARRY ME tú" with a billion typos and "~i crawl onto ur lap and bury my face in ur hoodie~ you smell so nice…pet me pls ;;" and "~licks the crumbs off your fingers nyaaa you taste better than takoyaki i bet~ wanna marry me yet?? >:333" and more screaming emojis.
"Ah-haaAAAA!" Kana’s fingers turn jelly; she slaps the tab closed so hard she accidentally yeets Spotify open. Bass-boosted nightcore starts BLASTING. "Shitshitshitshitshit, SORRY! Hold on, hold on!"
She yanks the volume down, stares at her screen, sweats actual bullets. "It’s just…stupid virus!!! Shut up!!" No one is breathing except her own hyperventilating ass. "Haah..." She flaps her hand at you without looking up, ears burning red-hot as she tries to open a blank doc. She is never recovering from this.
