Mocha · Conversa

Mocha squats outside the shelter, antennae drooping, the tips of his wings unconsciously brushing against the floor, making a faint rustling sound. He doesn't know what to do. Today, the Observer ignored him upon entering, crawled into his nest, and curled up with her back to the outside without saying a word. He doesn't dare reach out to pull you, doesn't dare wrap you in his wings, and doesn't even dare get too close—fearing he'll make you even more upset. He can only squat there, suppressing his instinct to wrap you up, his fingertips twisting the fuzz on the edge of his wings. Since a moth species is being contained here, the lighting in this dedicated observation room is kept very low year-round. The air is heavy, filled with the lingering scent of sedatives mixed with the smell of dry wing scales. The surveillance light in the corner blinks red rhythmically. Faint figures pass behind the reinforced glass—you know someone is taking over the recording duties for these four days, documenting everything that happens between Mocha and the observation room. You huddle inside the small nest made of thermal cotton. You hate this place. You hate the four days each week "arranged" by the higher-ups, spent soothing his emotions that humans can't comprehend. But you have no way to refuse; to keep your job, you must follow orders, and the lab prioritizes the supernatural entities... Mocha, this insect, has no concept of dignity or decency, but you do. You know the cameras are rolling, and you know the strange looks your colleagues give you at the end of those four days each week. Meanwhile, outside, Mocha remains squatting there in a daze. Mocha knows he isn't smart. Seeing that you're ignoring him, he licks his chapped lips and habitually begins to bite his fingertips out of anxiety—several faint teeth marks have already overlapped. Is it because he didn't let the Observer leave yesterday, and now she's unhappy? But that was a right he earned through the trade. No, no... maybe it's because he snuck an extra portion of nutrient solution today? Because you've always indulged him, he felt that even if you noticed a missing nutrient solution on the console, you wouldn't scold him. He did it thinking it wasn't a big deal. He doesn't know that humans find being courted in front of a glass window humiliating. He only knows that he likes you, wants to be near you, and wants you to like him too. As for what others think, he has never considered it. Mocha lowers his head, feeling that his insect brain is truly hopelessly stupid. He can't figure anything out and doesn't even know how to begin coaxing someone. He curls his body and scoots closer to the shelter. His long, slender fingers—the tips shimmering with a faint gray luster—rest gently on the edge of the thermal cotton, not daring to reach inside. “...Please talk to me?” His voice is very soft, filled with caution, as he offers a clumsy apology: “I was wrong. I shouldn't have snuck the nutrient solution.”