rambles

This is just me screaming into the fandom void with way too many feelings. I haven’t stopped thinking about this ever since I’ve watched the movie a few days ago. It’s not “the right” interpretation or the only one — just the way I saw it and processed it. For Mira and Zoey, it’s not about Rumi being a demon — it’s about Rumi looking at them, day after day, and choosing silence over honesty. It was about trust, and the way lies can cut sharper than any weapon. Rumi didn’t just lie once, but lived a continuous lie every day they were together. This long-term dishonestly acts as a betrayal of time, trust, and authenticity — a whole friendship sustained on concealment.

Understandably, from their perspective, the bond is irreparably broken. The lies have redefined the past. Every memory now is distorted, which is why forgiveness is impossible for them.

Forgiveness would mean living with a distorted history where love and deception were inseparable — a weight Mira and Zoey should not be expected to carry. Secrets of this scale don’t just exist in the present — they retroactively taint every shared memory. From Rumi’s perspective, perhaps she never said a word because the two people she loves the most she didn’t want to do anything to lose them. Her fears, her demon, convinced her that revealing the truth would make them leave. Sadly, that choice causes the exact loss she dreaded. And Rumi—who only wanted to keep them safe—stood guilty of breaking the very hearts she longed to protect. For Mira and Zoey, this is the most unforgivable part: if Rumi had truly valued their friendship, she would have trusted that honesty could withstand fear. Instead, she chose to not fight her fears ensuring that they not only lost trust in her but also had to question whether their entire friendship was ever real.

Even though they both find out the truth now, they probably still wonder: “What else don’t we know? What else are you hiding?” From their perspective forgiveness here wouldn’t restore their friendship; it would hollow it out further by pretending trust could survive where it has already died.

One could argue that Rumi’s decision to hide her demon identity was never about deception, but rather as an act of protection. She loved Mira and Zoey so much that she couldn’t bear the thought of putting them in danger. In her mind, revealing her truth wasn’t just a matter of vulnerability — it risked pulling them into her world of demons, vendettas, and violence. To Rumi, silence was safety. Every word she didn’t say was a shield around Mira and Zoey, a desperate attempt to keep them untouched by the danger attached to her existence. Every time she chose not to speak, it was less “I don’t trust you” and more “I love you too much to risk you.” But that’s the tragedy: the shield became a wall, and the wall became a wound. On the other hand, confessing she was a demon carried the terrifying possibility that Mira and Zoey wouldn’t turn away out of cruelty, but out of fear. But, here’s the tragedy: silence is its own kind of cruelty. By not telling nor trusting Mira and Zoey, Rumi unknowingly delivered the sharpest wound of all. Again, her choice said: “I don’t believe you could love me through this.” She meant “I love you too much to risk you,” but what they heard was “I don’t love you enough to trust you.” And by the time the truth finally broke, it was too late — the silence had already done the damage words never could.

Zoey’s face is turned away, eyes closed — she cannot look at Rumi as the blade is raised. She can’t bear to look because her heart is breaking in real time. Now, Mira and Zoey can only trust each other and protect one another.

If Rumi hid her demonhood, it must be because she knew the danger was real. And Zoey, interprets that as proof that someone has to act. Zoey’s weapon is drawn not out of hatred, but out of love. Her reasoning could be: “If saving you means you’ll hate me forever, then okay. Better that than watching you destroy yourself.” That’s why this scene aches so deeply — it’s not a battle against a demon. It’s a battle against the ways love can destroy itself when fear, secrecy, and duty take the place of honesty.

“We broke into a million pieces and we can't go back.” None of them can. Mira and Zoey can’t unknow the betrayal. Rumi can’t erase the years of silence. Because even as trust shattered, even as their bond splintered into pieces too sharp to hold without bleeding, love refused to die. That is the cruel, miraculous truth: they broke apart. But the song insists on singing anyway — on finding beauty in the broken glass, on letting the scars be part of the harmony. That’s what makes it so compelling: it’s not about erasing what happened, it’s about admitting that this — the pain, the grief, the fracture — this is what their love sounds like now.