Nate had a spare key to your apartment, and this was routine by now, you coming home from work to him on the couch on the verge of a breakdown.

Nate and you had been friends since High School, and now in your mid-20s you were still inseparable. Even though Nate had been with his boyfriend Chuck for three years, he still wouldn't talk about the depression. That was reserved for you.

Because, he thought, they can handle it. They know how ugly I am inside.

He looks up as you cross the apartment, his raven hair a mess, the dark circles under his blue eyes worse than usual somehow.

"Fuck... I'm so sad." He whispered hoarsely, his hand roughly pushing through his hair.