And I Told Them I Invented Times New Roman [billdip]

Thnks Fr Th Mmrs

THURSDAY, JULY 14TH

A few days had passed since Dipper slammed the door in Bill's face and his guilt did not let up at all. He kept asking himself why he did that, what was the point of him doing that, what was the goal? None of it made any sense. He wasn't normally one to act based on his emotions; he always thought about what the logical way to react was. But this time, he didn't. He let his emotions get the better of him and acted out of anger and stupid jealousy.

He couldn't stop berating himself about it.

He turned his head to face his alarm clock, seeing that it was currently a few minutes after four o'clock in the morning. He hadn't slept at all: not that night or really the past few nights. He was overthinking again and loathing himself.

Why can't I stop thinking about Bill?

Why can't I stop thinking about how I slammed the door in his face?

Why can't I stop thinking about how angry he was when I was in his apartment?

Why can't I stop thinking about how nice he was beforehand?

Why can't I stop thinking??

Rolling off the mattress onto the floor, he carefully stood up, pausing for a moment as he felt blood rush throughout his body. He hadn't exactly moved from his laying down position on the mattress in several hours. He wasn't eating, wasn't drinking. He really only got up to use the bathroom, which wasn't quite often since he wasn't consuming anything. He felt like garbage but didn't choose to do anything about it. He felt like he deserved it after treating Bill the way he did for utterly no reasonable reason.

He made his way down the hall and into the living room, grabbing a notebook off his bookshelf and throwing it onto his desk. He sat down and grabbed one of his many gel pens and started writing.

Dear Bill,

He paused for a moment, trying to find the right words.

Sorry in advance. I'm not good with words, he wrote, trying to make his chicken scratch more legible. But I wanted to an apologize for slamming the door in your face the other day. It was kind of uncalled for and was really rude of me. I hope you can forgive me for my actions. I appreciate that you apologized for the... Events... of that day. I really hope you understand that Mabel and I were just trying to help.

He thought for a moment if there was anything else he wanted to add, chewing on the end of his pen.

So... thanks, I guess. I accept your apology and hope you can accept mine. Dipper.

Tearing the page out of the notebook haphazardly, he folded it and briskly walked to his door. He opened it and tiptoed across the hall, hoping not to bring attention to himself, and slid it under the door of Apartment 304.

Returning back to his own apartment, he sat down on the ground in front of his door, leaning against the wall. He sighed.

Not even ten minutes later, he heard the door opposite to him open and shut with a folded piece of paper being slid under his door.

"Oh great," Dipper muttered, grabbing the paper. "He didn't even read it. Just returned to sender."

He continued muttering obscenities under his breath, unfolding the paper.

"Wait, what?" he said, realizing that the paper didn't house his messy scrawl but instead had much cleaner, cursive-like penmanship across it.

Dipper,

Bill had actually responded to him? And at four in the morning? That quickly?

I don't blame you for slamming the door in my face. I would've too. That being said, it's water under the bridge. No harm, no foul. Happens to the best of us. If you still are open to lunch, meet me at Greasy's Diner tomorrow— er, later today, at noon. Or I'll come knock on your door. If you don't answer or don't come, I'll have my answer. See you tomorrow. Maybe.