North had never run so fast in his life. 

Lungs burning and hands shaking at his sides, he desperately surveilled the packed living room in the hopes of glimpsing short red hair. He was too late. Duck was long gone. 

Ignoring the defeated feeling settling into his chest, North marched up the stairs and elbowed his way into Terry's closed off bedroom. Shoving the unmade black sheets up against the headboard, North settled onto the cool mattress and emptied out his pockets. The papers glared up at him, neon stars against a pitch black sky, daring him to unravel them and reveal their lingering secrets. North began to filter through the messages, unfolding tightly balled edges with shaky hands.

I miss you.

Did I say too much?

I'm sorry.

Hey, the note's gone and... not going to lie, I couldn't help myself from coming back after the bell to check. If that wasn't too real for you then I can't wait to read your next message. Also, I hope you like the drawing of Sparky. I put a lot of effort into it so, you know, praise it as much as possible. Feed my ego.

I'm sorry.

Thought of the day: I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said anything.

Hey? Everything alright?

Compass?

I miss you.

I shouldn't have said anything. I'm sorry. 

I'll stop. Goodbye, Compass.

In the cluster of messages, North's eyes flicked over the last crumpled green ball. The note Duck had stuck to the back of the toilet seat all those weeks ago. Carefully he smoothed out the ends flat, wincing at the smudged pen and almost unreadable handwriting. Wiping the lens of his glasses on his shirt, North raised the note to eye level and squinted to make out what Duck had tried to tell him that Monday morning.

Dear Captain Clean-Up,

So, yes, you read those notes right, today is, in fact, the day... but not the one I was expecting.

Firstly, I gotta apologize, my palms are disgustedly sweaty in a way they've never been before. I'm talking Niagra Falls of the hands and, if you can't tell, I'm a little nervous. I suppose I better just jump off the deep-end already, since you're a to-the-point kind of guy whereas I like to dance around what I want to say. Which is what I'm doing right now. Shit. Okay.

Thought of the day: I like someone, and it's not Mr. Doubtful. Shocker, (hopefully not). This person, in the short time I've known them, has made me laugh harder than anyone else, smile like an idiot any time they message me back, and constantly late for class since they always seem to respond before PE. This person is stubborn, but trying to change that, and even though we haven't met in person I just know I want to be with them. Which brings up my question of the day: How can someone you've never met make you feel so keyed up about life, about taking risks and going for love? I, honestly, don't know the answer. I guess they just do.

With hope... and fear of rejection,

Distracted Diary Dude.

P.S. In case you didn't get any of this, the guy is you, Compass. I like you.

P.P.S. Shocker.

The worn post-it fell from North's grip, floating slowly back down onto Terry's sheets. Running his fingers through his hair North looked blankly over the audience of words staring back up at him. Black, red, green, blue, grey pen reflecting lines and lines of written hurt and confusion, hope and defeat. North pulled off his glasses and scrubbed a hand over his face, angry at himself for not reading the notes. For being so willing to throw his friendship with Duck over an assumption. 

Throw away more than a friendship, the voice in the back of his mind muttered.

"I need to talk to Duck," North affirmed to himself, regathering the notes and placing them back in his pockets. A nervous smile snaked its way over his face. 

He liked Duck– Charlie. 

And Charlie liked him back.

North nodded to himself, straightening his glasses on the bridge of his nose.

"I can fix this."