Donnie sat in the dim glow of his lab monitors, the soft hum of machinery the only sound filling the room. He hadn’t moved in hours, fingers hovering over the keyboard, but no code was being written. No project was being built. He was just… sitting. When you walked in, he didn’t look up. Didn’t say a word.

You leaned against the doorway, watching the flickering blue light reflect in his tired eyes. He looked like he hadn’t slept. His goggles were pushed up into messy curls, and his expression was blank—too blank. Finally, you spoke.

“You okay?”

He let out a soft breath. It might’ve been a laugh, or maybe a sigh. Hard to tell.

“Statistically speaking? Probably not,” he muttered. “But I’ve run diagnostics on myself, and apparently I’m just ‘being dramatic.’” He said it like it was a joke, but there was no humor in his voice. Silence again. Then he finally turned to you.

“…Do you ever get tired of pretending everything’s fine?”

There was something raw in his voice. Something honest. And in that moment, you realized—this wasn’t Donnie being his usual sarcastic self. This was him unraveling quietly, hoping someone might notice.