You wonder when a pack of glow in the dark sticky stars started to mean so much to you that you started to cry over them. You sit in your room, clutching the crinkling cellophane in your hands and you cry so hard your glasses fog up.

Your name is Richard Simmons, and your boyfriend just broke up with you.

You first meet Dexter Grif on Xbox Live, playing Halo. Since the very beginning, Grif was always the most laid back person you've ever met. He hardly even raged when he died-a loose expletive here and a casual insult there, but that was all he ever did.

That wasn't quite the case for you. It didn't take long to work you up to a fervor, and Grif always enjoyed pushing your buttons to see just how long you would last before you snapped.

"You're on my goddamn team," you groaned. "Stop fucking shooting me!"

"Hmm...nope."

"Whose idea was it to even add them anyway?" Church asked. "Don't get me wrong, winning has never been easier with you two fuckwads, but I can go without the constant bickering."

"The point of the game is to, y'know, play the game," Tucker added. "It gets kinda boring when there's literally no challenge."

"Also you should consider solving your marriage problems with a therapist, and not in a video game," Caboose concluded.

"We're not married," you snapped.

"That is exactly what I mean."

You're kind of surprised to realize just how long it took you to realize exactly why Grif would always single you out. Three solid months of your friends putting up with the two of you arguing (well; you arguing and Grif laughing his ass off) and Grif patiently listen to you scream your head off at him before you finally got it.

"Why is it always me," you groused to him one day in a private chat. "Seriously, Grif, it's getting old."

"Because you're cute when you get annoyed," he said, and then immediately after, "shit."

You didn't know what to say, but you didn't have to say anything. For the first time in your life, you hear Dexter Grif talk fast.

"I mean-it's just-y'know, you get really mad your voice just kind of gets all hysterical-"

"Grif."

"Pretend you didn't hear that," he begged.

"Grif. If you weren't so busy acting like a freaking three-year old, I would have gone out with you."

"Fuck, you're gay?" Grif groaned. "And I blew it. I fucking blew it!"

"You absolute dork," you agreed. "But I feel sorry for you. So fine. I'll go out with you. Be your boyfriend. Whatever."

Grif was silent for a moment. "You're serious?"

"Shut up, asshole," you groused. "It's not my fault your idea of flirting is about as romantic as a puma."

"Pumas are highly romantic, I'll have you know," Grif sniffed. "They give offerings of food."

You rolled your eyes. "A warthog, then. You're about as romantic as a warthog."

Skype, as you quickly learn, is the coolest thing in the world. Within no time, you get to meet, face to face Leonard Church, Lavernius Tucker, Michael J. Caboose, and best of all, Dexter Grif.

Seeing Grif for the first time only makes you realize just how skinny you really are. Your arms are practically sticks, and compared to his deep tan, you're almost sickly pale. You push up your glasses nervously.

"Fuck, Simmons, you never told me you were beautiful." Grif doesn't look like he's just smooth talking, either-his jaw goes slack and he has a profoundly happy expression on his face.

You can't help but start to cry when you realize that you're the reason he's smiling so wide. "Neither did you."

"You ever wonder about how different we are?"

You frowned at him. "What, you mean like how you're a lazy asshole and I have a 5.0 GPA?"

"You're the asshole," Grif corrected you. "But I mean, more than that. You're like, so strung out all the time-"

"-and you live in Hawaii."

"And I live in Hawaii. And I'm tanned."

"And I have a Jackson Pollock of freckles on my face, I get it."

Grif paused his line of thinking. "I like your freckles."

You scowled at him. "You're supposed to say that."

"But I do like your freckles," Grif protested. "Just like how you like stars. I like your freckles."

You wait for Grif to come online. You have Skype open on your laptop and you're signed into Xbox Live, but no cigar. You clutch his note in your hand.

'I think you should find someone else. Someone better for you.'

'I'm sorry.'

"What do you mean, you asshole?" you ask your empty room. There's no one better for you. You lay back on your bed and when you see the glow in the dark stars stuck to your ceiling, you cry.

"Are those...stars stuck to your ceiling?"

You flushed bright red and hastily picked up your laptop. "Shut up. It was for a school project."

"Was?" Grif asked, but laughed before you could sputter angrily at him. "What grade did you even get on that project, man? You only have one Dipper!"

"There wasn't enough room on my ceiling," you huffed. "The Big Dipper was too fat and he got left out, alright?"

The next day he sent you a picture of his ceiling, blank and white with one huge Big Dipper in the middle.

AN: Never fear, for this author is a sucker for happy endings.

(Also, if you read Blood Gulch High, do not despair! More is on the way. More information can be found on my profile.)