A/N: So yeah. I'm doing this 100 Words thing, challenged by HoLlIwOoDbOuNd13. Just like everyone else. Except I use proper grammar, for the most part. And I actually have had professional instruction in fiction writing. So. Yeah. Wow, this author's note totally hasn't started sounding cocky. Not one bit. Well, if I haven't lost you already, enjoy!

(Oh, and I don't own Bob Marley's song, "Three Little Birds".)

Blue.

My Sonshine was blue, and I could not allow this.

I mean, uh . . . Chad Dylan Cooper does not let people around him be upset because it ruptures the concentration that lets him be such a great actor. The best one of his generation. Yeah. That's it.

Sonny was curled up on the chair in the dressing room she shared with Blondie—I mean Tanya. Or Tiara. Or something. Whatever. Chad Dylan Cooper does not bother himself with the names of Randoms.

Anyways, Sonny was resting against the back cushion, hugging her knees to her chest. She looked like she was in the fetal position. Even though she was facing the door, she hadn't looked up when I'd popped my head in.

Maybe if I just pretend nothing's wrong, she'll snap out of it, I thought. It seemed like a reasonable plan.

"Hey Munroe," I said loudly, walking into the room. "I heard the other Randoms talking about a sketch in the commissary, and I thought I'd just come here to gloat about how much funnier I am than all of you, and I'm on a real show."

"Chad, I really don't want to talk right now," Sonny whispered, voice cracking in the middle of her sentence. She sniffed and brought her hand to wipe something from her eye.

Whoa. Obviously this was way too serious for my arrogance and a little one of our fights to fix. She was more upset than she'd been when that farting mutt croaked. Well, everyone thought it did, but it didn't. Which I should totally recommend to my scriptwriters for a Mac Falls plot . . .

Anyways. Now I had to be sympathetic, because . . . well, because she's Sonny. And I hate to see her like that. Did it mean risking exposure of my true feelings for her? Yeah, sure. But I'd do anything for my Sonshine.

I look a deep breath and sighed. I looked back at the door to make sure no one was around. To be sure, I closed it. Then I paced over to where Sonny was and sat down on the chair—it wasn't too hard, seeing as though she was taking up two feet of space, being curled up and all.

"Sonny . . . is something wrong?" I asked softly.

She bit her lip. She shook her head, letting out a little whimper.

"So nothing's wrong?"

She shook her head again.

"So you're in the fetal position on a chair, ready to cry, and nothing's wrong?" I clarified.

Her dark brown eyes swung my way, and I felt my heart breaking. It was like someone had plunged a knife into my stomach. Chad Dylan Cooper doesn't repeat himself, but he will when necessary: he hates to see his Sonshine like this.

Then, through tears that threatened to fall and a voice that threatened to break, she said, "One of my friends back in Wisconsin called today."

I nodded, urging her on.

"She has breast cancer." Sonny bit her lip in a final attempt to stop her tears, but it didn't work very well. She blinked, and one by one, tears streamed down her perfect cheeks.

"Oh, Sonny . . .," was all I could choke out. I held my arm out wide. She leaned forward and into me, letting go of herself.

I felt tears soak through my shirt. I didn't care. Sonny was there, sobbing into my shoulder. All I could to was lightly rub her back and whisper into her ear.

"Shhh . . . Sonny . . . I promise everything is going to be alright."

After a minute, I started to hum the tune to "Three Little Birds" by Bob Marley, and I softly sung.

"Don't worry 'bout a thing, 'cause every little thing gonna be all right. . . . Rise up this mornin' . . . smiled with the risin' sun. Three little birds . . . pitch by my doorstep singin' sweet songs of melodies pure and true, sayin', 'This is my message to you-ou-ou . . .'"

I kept singing until her body had stopped shaking, until I could no longer feel hot tears continue to soak through my shirt.

Sonny sniffed and lifted herself up from my shoulder. She gave me a small, but sad smile. "Thank you, Chad."

"You're welcome. And, um, call me anytime you need to talk or a shoulder to cry on. As long as that shoulder isn't covered with an expensive shirt." I gave her a quick smile, trying to back up my arrogant humor.

She accepted it with another small and sad smile. She whispered, "Fine."

"Fine."

"Good."

"Good."

I smiled and turned for the door. As I reached for the handle, I heard her add: "So we're good?"

A wide grin crossed my face. I looked over my shoulder and said, "We're so good." And I left.

So . . . I'm not sure this first one was all that great. Oh well.