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

If It Means A Lot To You

WEDNESDAY, AUGUST 10TH

Dipper's notebook was quickly running out of pages for him to rip out while a pile of notes grew on his nightstand. This was his main way of communicating with Bill. While the blonde man had given the brunette his phone number, he was too scared at the direct contact to actually use it.

Over the course of the last few weeks, they'd passed notes several times a day, talking about anything and everything. There were a few notes that Dipper received that asked some deeper questions than he was comfortable to answer, so he did his best to maintain lighter and shallow topics. Things like what's your favorite color? (it was yellow, of course, and he had told him that his was blue) or how old are you? (he was only two years older, at 24) What do you do for a living? (he'd told him about how he was failing author and the blonde told him he was a freelance dancer, which explained a lot) Your favorite shape? (triangles, specifically isosceles) Favorite food? (there wasn't just one he could pick, so he said he liked Italian). He felt like he was in kindergarten again, asking every icebreaker question that existed. He hoped that Bill wouldn't get tired of him with the meaningless conversation.

He just wasn't ready for anything more serious after the humiliation he felt from their previous encounter. Dipper didn't want anybody to see him like that, let alone Bill. He was always used to panicking alone and that's how he liked it. Not even to mention the fact that he now knew his dirty little secret. The thought sent a shiver down his spine.

He supposed it could be worse: Mabel could've found out. He was a liar.

Sighing softly, he sat down on his mattress and sifted through the various letters, reading them over again and enjoying the small ounce of dopamine it gave him. The first note was one he really liked to reread.

Hey Pine Tree, was written in neat penmanship across the top of the paper. There was a little doodle of a pine tree next to it, colored in haphazardly with blue ink pen. It looked just like the one on his hat.

Just wanted to check in on you. We don't have to talk about anything you don't want to. Like I told you before, if you ever need me, come get me. I don't care what time it is, I don't care where you are, I don't care if you feel like it's not worth it. It's worth it to me and I want to make sure you're okay. You haven't called me, so I'm hoping that the case is that you're doing alright.

The concern dripping from the words left a warm feeling blooming within him. He felt really bad that he'd caused someone to worry so much, especially about his wellbeing, but he was also enjoying someone caring about him. His parents had never known that anything was even remotely wrong with him and played off his anxiety diagnosis like it wasn't a big deal. He loved his parents but they never felt like they were really there for him.

In college, things didn't change. His roommates throughout the years never showed any interest in him, never cared to be his friend, never cared to even say hello half the time. Things worsened for him when he lived alone during his final year. At first, he was excited to have his own space, one that he didn't have to share with a stranger for ten months of the year before they went their separate ways and never spoke again. But then the invasive thoughts increased in frequency and louder in volume. He could barely convince himself to leave the dorm when he didn't have to, and due to most of his classes being online, he really didn't have a reason to. Mabel was busy with her classes and her friends and wasn't concerned about him at the time. She didn't have a reason to.

He ran through the papers again, wanting to distract himself. He focused his eyes on the written words of the new note in his hand. It had slipped underneath his door an hour ago but he was anxious to read it. He was anxious to read all of the notes, an underlying fear that Bill'd get bored of him or that Bill'd tell him about what he must've really thought, or Bill'd giving up on him, seeing him only as broken goods that had to be discarded. There was nothing that held any of those suspicions evident and that was the only thing that was keeping him going.