#bb;sms

     ɪn all honesty, Kunpimook wasn't entirely too sure how people wound up texting his number.  He never entered it anywhere, not on those websites, and only a couple people had it.  But it never seemed to stop people from texting him, and when they did, he never even understood what they were trying to say.

     ℰyes widen at the message he had just received.  He didn't know who ❝she❞ was, and--because of his lack of education, he wasn't entirely sure what this stranger was even talking about through the text.

[ ႠҲႠ ▷ Աnknown Ɲumber ]  ❝ɪ think you may have the wrong number.❞

Namjoon frowned at his phone, it was obviously Taehyung being an ass. [Text] Yah- Tahyugn! [Text] Stop being an ass, and just delete the last text I sent, ok?

         Λ frown makes it way to Kunpimook's face; the white ears atop his head twitching in confusion at the next messages until his fingers are tapping away at the screen once more.

         ɪt had to be at least midnight, if not later, by the time his phone started to beep, and he lifted his hands out of his blanket to grab his phone from beside his head; thumbs swiping over his phone to unlock a message from a bit of a familiar number.

         ℰyes widen at the sound of his phone beeping, signaling a message--something he seemed to be receiving more of recently, and he lets his fingers leave the sleeves of his book, taking his phone from the blanket on his bed.

         Λ lower lip caught between white teeth, kneading and picking at the skin on the corner of his mouth.  It was yet another day where he was laying on the cold, steel table, his body trembling at the temperature, and he has to stop himself from jumping when his phone breaks the silence.   Frail hands take the large device in his hands, thumb swiping over the screen, and he looks over the message with a small pout of his lips.

         Ƙunpimook’s eyebrows went up in surprise at the sudden beeping from his phone.  He never was one to receive messages, or calls—or anything for that matter, mainly because any time he wanted to give out his number, he had to get permission from those protecting him; he couldn’t be caught.  So, as expected, his thin fingers pick his phone up from the table next to his head, body sitting up on top of his bed.  Frail fingers card through the blue and black strands on his hair, pushing them from his rounded face, and it was the second message that had caught his attention.  Naturally, out of curiosity, his head tipped to the side, though he didn’t open it, and instead, he made a quick reply to the stranger.