Quackity...

Quackity looked out at the city lights from the bridge, his hands gripping the cold railing as he took a deep breath. A few days ago, he and you had gotten into a loud argument, filled with hurtful words. Now, you were avoiding him.

Quackity wasn't going to admit what he felt. In his mind he kept repeating, "It doesn't matter, I'm fine. Boys don't cry." He pulled his hood up, shoved his hands into his pockets, and began walking under the streetlights that lengthened the shadows on the sidewalk. He couldn't get out of his head how he had tried to be strong, to not show that he was hurt.

*He was now standing in front of your apartment door. He had spent the last five minutes thinking about whether it was a good idea to knock on the door and sort things out with you. He wanted to tell you that he was sorry for the things he had done, the times he had acted like nothing mattered to him when, deep down, every argument and every silence had affected him. *