#double22

"It's very beautiful over there." Those were the last words of the great Thomas Edison.

Most people indulge in chocolates or soft-serve sweets. I indulge in final breaths. Where others collect postcards or pressed flowers, I collect dying declarations.

Last words carry thousands, sometimes millions, of unspoken pieces.

They reveal who a person truly is when everything unnecessary falls away. It’s ironic, really. Knowing them now doesn’t benefit most people. They can’t save the speaker, can’t change anything.

At best, they’re just another fact to file away. A remembrance that summarizes a character.

But for me?

They meant everything. They encapsulate life. They leave me with conclusions where the world offered none.

Like the French poet François Rabelais, who died saying, "I go to seek a Great Perhaps."

A final whisper of pursuit, seeking the unknown, chasing a horizon I’ll never reach. It feels honest. It feels like life itself.

My obsession didn’t start from curiosity. It started the day my mother died. She left me with three words: “To be continued.” No context. No explanation. No chance to ask what she meant. Just that.

I was thirteen. And nothing prepares a thirteen-year-old for a mother stolen by an overdose accident. No one prepares for being handed grief without instructions.

Those words didn’t offer closure. They didn’t offer comfort. They didn’t teach lessons. They left gaps. Holes. A silence I’ve been trying to fill ever since. Why? Why those words? Why that ending? 

Maybe, just maybe, if I could understand the space between life and death, the way a person completes themselves down to a single sentence,I could understand her too. I could finish the song, close the book.

Maybe decoding everyone else’s last words would help me translate my mother’s.

And until then, I’m left chasing my own “Great Perhaps.”

That said,I know damn well the “Great Perhaps” is not waiting for me at a house party filled with sweaty teenagers, sticky floors, and beer that tastes like regret. And it’s definitely not hiding behind the wheel while I DD my neighbor as they get shit-faced drunk for the third time this month.

I’ve known Ava Lee Garcia since I was five, long before either of us knew what heartbreak tasted like, before the stress, the growing up, before everything.

Back then it was simpler.

Just me, her, Theo, and a cheap guitar in my dad’s garage, fingers blistering as I tried to copy the songs on the radio.

Ava always picked things up faster, strumming confidently while I fumbled with the chords. She’d laugh, nudge me with her shoulder, and say:

“Try again, Y/N. You’ve got this.”

Sometimes I think my entire personality was built around trying again.

I look at her now, eyeliner smudged, rings stacked on every finger and I realize she hasn’t changed much. Not where it matters.

"You’ve got to live a little," Ava says, pressing a red cup into my hand. The liquid inside sloshes. It smells like battery acid and bad decisions.

I eye it. “What is this?”

She shrugs. “Something that’ll make you stop overthinking for 5 minutes.”

I snort, but I don’t drink it. I never drink it.

You—reading this now—might think it’s cruel of Ava to pass me a drink, especially knowing my mother overdosed on this and a few other things. But that’s the part you don’t know. That no one knows.

The whole town knows the truth. Everyone except my dad.

Being practically tied at the hip with Ava and Theo, I never found the courage to say the words my mother died. I never corrected anyone when they said she left. Never flinched when people whispered that she’d gotten a divorce, that she wanted more, that she skipped across town chasing a better life.

They believe she chose to disappear.

It’s an open secret, one everyone agrees not to touch, like a cracked floorboard you learn to step over without looking down. And maybe it’s cowardly, but I let it happen.

Because if she left, then there’s no memory of my mother in the bathroom burned into me. No coroner’s voice. No pills rattling in a bottle like a warning no one heard in time. If she left, then the absence hurts, but it doesn’t kill.

People don’t ask questions when someone leaves. They do when someone dies.

So I let Ava hand me drinks I won’t touch. Let Theo joke about how “responsible” I am. Let teachers nod sadly and tell me how strong I must be, growing up with a single dad.

I smile. I nod. I accept the version of my life they can handle. It’s better this way.  At least, that’s what my dad and I tell ourselves.

I hand the red cup back. “Pass."

Ava rolls her eyes, but her smirk softens. “You’re no fun.”

She laughs, throwing an arm around my shoulders and pulling me deeper into the noisy, neon-washed chaos of the party. Her bracelets clatter against my collarbone, the sound bright and careless, everything I’m not.

Drowning in the crowd, I spot neighbor #2—Ava’s other half, the chaos to her curated recklessness.

Theo Lee Garcia.

In typical Theo fashion, he’s shirtless despite the cold, smoking two blunts like he’s been dared to by God Himself. He’s standing on a coffee table that definitely isn’t rated for this kind of abuse, shouting something.

He sees me and grins, the kind of grin that means trouble, the kind I’ve been cleaning up since sophomore year.

I swear I can already feel the impending headache forming behind my eyes.

Before he can drag me into whatever ritualistic stupidity he’s orchestrating, I pull myself back, letting the crowd swallow him whole.

Theo disappears into a wave of hands as his “bros” hoist him up like some shirtless, half-baked deity. He’s crowd surfing now, screaming something unintelligible and triumphant, both blunts still somehow intact.

I lean toward Ava and mutter, “I swear to God, this is why he was held back a year.”

She snorts, too loudly, because Ava has never understood the concept of subtlety. “Well, when I graduate this year,” she says, bumping my shoulder with hers, “you are officially in charge of keeping him in place.”

I drop my head back with a groan dramatic enough to rival Theo’s antics.

“Kill me now, please.”

Ava gives me a sympathetic pat on the back that is absolutely not sympathetic. It’s the kind of pat that says you’re screwed, bestie, while her eyes sparkle with mischief.

“Oh yeah? And what will your last words be?” she asks, way too cheerfully for someone watching her brother get waterboarded with cheap beer. She takes a slow sip of her mystery drink, leaning into me. “Come on, my little genius. Give me something poetic.”

I arch an eyebrow. “You want me to rehearse my dying declaration at a party?”

“Yes,” she says without a hint of irony. “I wanna know what you’d say if you dropped dead right now.”

I gesture vaguely toward the crowd where Theo is reenacting the fall of civilization. “Honestly? Probably something like: ‘Please tell Theo to stop.’”

Ava laughs loud, bright, the kind that makes people turn their heads.

She nudges me again. “No, seriously. What would it be?”

I look at her. Really look.

The constellation of freckles across her nose, the way she’s always half leaning on me like I’m the only stable object in a spinning world.

And for a second, the noise fades.

“I…”

I think deeply. If I died right now, here, like this—what would be left? What word could I leave behind that would sum me up, carve out some dignity, prove I was more than a background character in other people’s stories?

“I don’t know.”

The words feel small when I say them.

I let out a slow sigh. I can’t give her a real answer, not because I don’t care but because I haven’t lived long enough to earn one. I haven’t discovered myself enough to stand in front of the world and say, this is who I am and mean it.

I feel unfinished.

I feel like water, hiding behind the greats and their last words, letting borrowed wisdom guide the shape of my life. I can mold myself into any container handed to me. 

But standing there, with Ava waiting for an answer I don’t have, a thought settles heavy in my chest:

If I can become anything, follow any words of life —  am I actually living any of it?

Ava just give a light chuckle “Keep thinking, young buck, but I can tell you what theo’s last words will be; ‘Hold my blunt’” 

I laugh, just imagining him saying that. “Oh, that reminds me of some good ones,” I start, already slipping into my default mode, facts, quotes, the safe little world in my head. “Like British MP Lady Astor, ‘Am I dying or is it my birthday?’ It was not her birthday. Or Michael Jackso—”

“Okay, okay, we get it,” Ava cuts in, laughing. “You’re a nerd on the weirdest topic.”

I laugh with her warm, genuine until something in the corner of my eye shifts. My smile drops instantly.

Theo has climbed on top of a table, arms spread wide like he’s about to deliver a TED Talk on Bad Decisions. And then—oh God—he hooks his fingers into the waistband of his pants.

My heart stops. “Oh shit. AVA.”

Ava turns, following my line of sight. “Oh my fucking god.”

She shoves through the crowd like Moses parting the Red Sea, except instead of holiness, she’s powered entirely by rage and sibling shame.

“THEO!” she yells, her voice slicing through the music. “Fucking—get down!”

Theo, wobbling like a newborn deer, beams at her and shouts, “AVA”

I wince, already imagining police reports, ER visits, maybe an obituary if gravity decides to be especially unforgiving tonight.

Ava reaches the table just as Theo starts to shimmy. I right behind her, praying to whatever cosmic power handles idiots.

This is my life.

Was this the Great Perhaps I were chasing? The ‘to be continued’ that my mom was envisioning?

Because if it was, it looked a whole lot like chaos, liability forms, and a half-naked teenage boy screaming on top of furniture.

After the whole debacle finally calmed down—and after Theo stopped insisting he was “ascending to godhood”—I drove the twins home. I always do. I live next door, and somehow that has permanently assigned me the role of chauffeur, babysitter, and unofficial Garcia-wrangler.

The car ride is the quietest it’s been all day.

Theo is slumped across the backseat, head resting on Ava’s thigh, mouth slightly open as he snores like a dying lawnmower.

Ava absentmindedly runs her fingers through his hair, humming softly along to the song on the radio. It’s gentle, almost nostalgic, nothing like the disaster I just escaped.

“Thanks again,” Ava says suddenly, cutting through the silence.

“Oh, don’t worry about it,” I reply, eyes fixed on the road ahead. Streetlights glide across the windshield like passing ghosts.

Ava sighs, deep and frustrated. “I swear to God, we need to fix his drinking problem this year. If we don’t, he’s gonna drink himself to death.”

I let out a quiet chuckle, not because it’s funny, but because if I don’t laugh, I might start worrying on her behalf. “Yeah.”

I grip the steering wheel a little tighter.

I’ve never really understood why I ended up hanging around the twins. It wasn’t planned. It wasn’t fate. It wasn’t some childhood prophecy.

It just… happened.

One day, two kids with matching last names appeared in the doorway like chaos and sunshine incarnate.

Ava with her loud laugh, paint-stained hands, and with her big toothy smile.

Theo with grass in his hair, a bruised knee, and enough reckless energy to power a small city.

And then there was me. Quiet. Awkward. Bookish. Obsessed with the weirdest things.

The twins were everything I wasn't.

And maybe that’s why they became my everything.

I ease the car into the driveway, headlights washing over the familiar garage door. The engine hums to a stop, but neither of them moves. Ava’s head is tilted against the window, mouth slightly open, eyeliner smudged from the chaos of the night. Theo is still sprawled across the backseat, one arm dangling off like a dead Victorian child in a painting.

For a moment, I just… sat there.

The calm after the storm. The kind of quiet I never get at parties, or in crowds, or even in my own head.

Ava’s face in sleep is softer, less cynical. Theo’s is peaceful, the kind of peaceful he never lets himself be when he’s awake.

I debate letting them stay like this. Just a few more seconds. A breath of stillness I didn’t know I needed.

Then I exhale and lean over, tapping Ava’s shoulder gently.

“We’re here.”

She grumbles something into the window, blinking awake like someone resurrecting from the dead.

I twist in my seat, bracing a hand on the headrest.

“Theodore Lee Garcia,” I say with the firm authority of a fed-up mother in a sitcom, “wake up.”

Theo snorts himself awake so violently I nearly jump.

Both of them stir at once, Ava rubbing her eyes, Theo blinking like a confused golden retriever.

Ava looks at me, messy-haired and half-asleep. “You drive like a grandpa,” she mutters.

“Oh well, you can tell me that when you finally pass your drivers test” I shoot back.

Theo lifts his head, squinting at the house. “Home?”

“Yes, genius,” Ava says, patting his cheek. “Home.”

The three of you sit there in the quiet driveway, the world finally still, the chaos of the night behind me.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The morning light leaks through my blinds in thin, golden lines, soft enough to pretend it’s gentle, bright enough to remind me it’s Monday.

I blink awake slowly, the remnants of last night clinging to me like fog. I breathe out. Another day.

I move through my morning routine on autopilot, shower, brush teeth, tie hair back, school uniform slightly crooked until I fix it in the mirror.

My room is quiet, the whole house usually is. In the kitchen, I crack eggs into a pan, toast bread, and slice fruit. Two plates: one for me, one for my dad.

He’s still asleep,he usually is at this hour after late shifts, so I leave his breakfast covered on the counter, with a little sticky note:

Eat before it gets cold. (...please.)

I grab my bag, sling it over my shoulder, and step outside.

The morning air greets me with a cool kiss, and I inhale deeply. My bike sits by the gate, a little rusty, the paint chipped, but it works.

I hop on, push off the pavement, and let the downhill slope pull me forward. 

I looked over the Garcia house to see the twins' window shut, they were probably sleeping, still hung over from yesterday.

-------

The auditorium is mostly empty, lit only by the stage lights that hum faintly overhead.

Sophia stands center stage, script in hand, voice soft but steady as she works through her lines for the spring musical, every gesture precise, every inflection practiced.

She’s always the last one to leave rehearsals, perfecting moments no one else even notices. Dani lounges across three seats in the front row, scrolling on her phone, glancing up every now and then with a small grin. “You sound good, Soph,” she calls, kicking her feet up. “You always sound good”

Sophia starts the monologue once more, but the sudden blare of the passing-period bell slices through the silence.

Both girls groan. Dani hops up, grabbing her bag, while Sophia hurriedly gathers her script, muttering, “We were just getting to the good part.”

They bolt out of the auditorium, sprinting down the hall as Daniela was pushing past the sea of freshman, just in time to crash straight into you rounding the corner on your way to class. Paper scatters, someone curses, and Sophia stumbles, practically landing against Daniela.

“Sorry! Sorry—” Sophia blurts, cheeks pink as she hands you a notebook that somehow ended up beneath her shoe.

“It’s fine,” you say, already backing up because your homeroom teacher will murder you if you’re late again.

Sophia watches you disappear down the hallway before Dani tugs her wrist. “Come on, Julliard. Homeroom.”

A minute later, the two of them slide into their seats, Dani slumping back, Sophia sitting a little too straight, tapping her script against her knee. She’s barely listening to morning announcements.

She’s still thinking about the way you apologized, soft, quick, familiar and how it felt hearing your voice up close again after all these years.

---

You might be thinking, I woke up and showed up on time.

Why in the good heavens am I late?

Well it's obviously  not because I overslept, not because I forgot my bag, but because Luke and a couple of the football idiots cornered me by the vending machines demanding the answer sheets I promised them.

"answers, You got them" They whisper with a smirk, as if they are passing dope around.

I handed them over — for cash, obviously — and then immediately regretted it when Luke started bragging loudly about how “even the nerd has our backs.”

Great. Exactly the reputation I wanted. 

So now I’m speed-walking down the hall, clutching my books, praying Mr Johnson had morning coffee and won’t take my head off for being late. I turn the corner— and crash straight into someone.

My notebook goes flying, her script slips from her hands, and the world tilts. I drop to a crouch to grab my things at the same time she does, and our fingers brush.

Just barely.

But it’s enough to short-circuit my entire brain.

Sophia.

Of course it’s Sophia.

Her eyes meet mine, warm brown, startled, familiar in the way childhood memories are familiar. I swear the hallway noise dips for half a second, like the universe hit pause just to mess with me.

“S-sorry,” she sputtered, handing me the notebook she stepped on.

I shake her head quickly, hair brushing my cheeks. “No, no — it’s fine.”

Sophia.

She really is a catch.

I’ve had a crush on her since freshman yearn since the first musical I ever watched. Macbeth. She played Lady Macbeth, all steel and fire and quiet madness, and something in me cracked open. I remember sitting there in the dark, hands clenched in my lap, realizing my life had shifted without asking my permission.

Suddenly, I wanted everything about her.

What she hated.  What scared her. What she loved. What her favorite food was. If she had any secreted talents. How she likes her coffee

Who she was when no one was watching.

“I’ll finally get to see Marilyn.” The last words of Joe DiMaggio.

A man who loved Marilyn Monroe until the very end—through the breakup, through her marrying someone else, through years of distance and damage and silence. Love that didn’t expire just because it wasn’t returned the way he wanted.

That was the love I was chasing.

The kind that stays. The kind that doesn’t bargain or bend or ask to be chosen. Being so head over heels for someone that even the end of the world wouldn’t make you look away.

The kind of love that sounds romantic until you realize how lonely it is.

By the time I slide into homeroom — breathless, late, and earning the usual glare from my teacher.

But who cares? She's all I can think about. Sophia. 

The girl who somehow gets prettier every year.

I stare at my desk, replaying that moment in the hallway again and again, fingers tingling like her touch left an imprint.

I’m so screwed.

—--

The rest of the day passes in a blur.

Not the dramatic kind, no swelling music, no catastrophic moments, just a quiet, hollow fog where time slips through my fingers without leaving a mark.

I answer questions automatically. Take notes I won’t remember writing. Nod at things people say without hearing them. My body goes through the motions while my mind stays somewhere else entirely. Math bleeds into history. History bleeds into science. Pages turn. Pens scratch. Bells ring.

I don’t notice any of it.

It’s like watching myself from underwater, everything muted and slow, my thoughts drifting in lazy circles that never quite land on anything solid. 

I’m just… blank. Empty in a way that isn’t peaceful, just numb.

Maybe it's the silent realization that I can’t do anything about it. Liking a girl for 3 years straight with barely any contact. It's truly pathetic and I can’t fathom how to understand anything.

At some point, someone bumps my chair. I mutter an apology. I don't remember the meaning. At another point, the teacher says my name, and I respond before realizing I’ve been called on.

Then,

The lunch bell rings. Sharp. Sudden. Jarring.

Dismissed.

I blink at the clock, genuinely surprised to see how much time has passed. Half the day, gone. Just like that. I gather my things slowly, hands moving on muscle memory alone, backpack slung over my shoulder without thought.

Another day half lived.

Another stretch of time I won’t remember. And as I stand, the thought finally resurfaces, quiet but insistent, like a bruise I forgot was there.

Sophia.

Lunch means hallways. Hallways mean people. And people mean the possibility of running into her again.

My stomach twists.

I swallow, straighten my shoulders, and step into the current of bodies pouring out of the classroom—still numb, still drifting, still pretending I‘m not bracing myself for impact.

I go to lunch like I always do. Theo and Ava aren’t there, probably in an empty classroom - debriefing without me- or cutting class like they own the concept of time, so I drift through the cafeteria alone, trayless, unnoticed.

The room hums with noise: plastic chairs scraping, laughter bouncing off tile, the sharp smell of fries and something vaguely chemical pretending to be pizza.

I chose the corner table by the windows. I always do.

It’s far enough from the center that no one accidentally sits with me, close enough to the wall that I can disappear if I need to.I slide my backpack onto the seat beside me, pull out my laptop, and open the document that’s been living rent-free in my head for months.

My novel. The cursor blinks at me like it’s waiting for permission. I started typing anyway.

Words come easier than thoughts. Easier than feelings. Sentences stack quietly on the screen, measured, careful, controlled. Fiction is kinder than reality. In fiction, I decide when things end. I decide what words people get to leave behind. 

I was halfway through a paragraph when something shifted. Not sound. Not movement.

Pressure.

I don’t even have to look up to know.

Across the cafeteria, Sophia’s table has gone quiet in that subtle, conspiratorial way, forks pausing mid-air, heads angling just enough to stare without staring. Daniela leans in, whispering something I can’t hear. Megan’s gaze flicks from Sophia to me, sharp and assessing, before she schools her face into something unreadable.

Sophia sits frozen for a second.

Then she looks.

Not casually. Not accidentally.

Directly at me. 

My fingers are still on the keyboard. The cursor blinking. The distance between the tables was suddenly too small, too loud.

Her expression is soft, curious, maybe uncertain. There’s something else there too, something that twists in my chest. Recognition. Memory.

Like she’s piecing something together she didn’t know she was missing.

there, solid, unyielding. Untouchable.

The air thickens. It catches in my throat, makes breathing feel like a conscious effort. I don’t know what compels me to do it, but I offer a weak smile and lower my head, retreating into the safety of the screen.

Coward.

When I look back up, the moment is gone.

Out of nowhere Ava is walking toward Megan, Sophia’s attention drifting back to the group , laughter already spilling from her lips, her entire body language softening in a way it only ever does around her. Those damn lovebirds.

I exhale slowly, fingers hovering over the keys again.

The cursor still blinks.

Waiting for me to decide whether I’m going to write about the moment I just lived through, or pretend it never happened at all.

Megan and Ava have been dating since freshman year. A solid three years.

By now, you’d think I’d be part of their group, woven into the background of their inside jokes, their shared glances, their easy certainty. I’m always around, always welcome in theory.

But I never had the courage.

Courage to sit at their table without an excuse. Courage to speak without rehearsing first. Courage to exist without making myself small.

They make love look effortless. Public, unapologetic, real. And every time I see them together, I’m reminded of how badly I want that kind of belonging, and how convinced I am that it’s something meant for other people.

So I stay where I always am: close enough to watch, far enough to disappear.

Safe

----------------

“You’re really staring at her again?” Daniela laughs, lightly smacking Sophia’s arm.

“No,” Sophia laughs back, a little too quickly. “Stop, Dani. It’s not like that.”

She pauses anyway. Her eyes drift—not obvious, but intentional.

“Hey, Ava?”

Ava looks up, smiling, one arm still wrapped comfortably around Megan. “What’s up, Soph?”

Sophia hesitates, brows knitting together just slightly. “Why does she always sit alone?”

Ava blinks. “Huh?”

“You guys grew up together, right?” Sophia continues, voice gentle, sincere. “Do you ever invite her to sit with us?”

For a split second, Ava doesn’t answer.

Not because she doesn’t know—but because the truth is heavier than it looks.

Ava follows Sophia’s gaze across the room. You’re hunched over your laptop, shoulders curved inward, like you’re trying to fold yourself into the smallest possible shape. The glow of the screen reflects faintly in your glasses. Focused. Removed. Somewhere else entirely.

Ava exhales softly.

“I guess…” she says slowly, choosing her words, “she likes working on her novel. She never complains about it.”

Sophia hums, unconvinced.

“That’s not really an answer,” Daniela mutters, but Sophia ignores her.

Sophia’s eyes stay on you. Thoughtful. Observant. Like she’s watching a door that hasn’t been opened yet.

Megan squeezes Ava’s hand gently, a silent question.

Ava shrugs, quieter now. “She’s always been like that. Doesn’t like being the center of things.”

That part is true.

What Ava doesn’t say, what she can’t say, is that you’ve always waited to be invited. And everyone else assumed you preferred the quiet.

Manon’s head snaps up immediately, eyes lighting with interest. “Ohhh, I see you, Sophia,” she says, grin sharp and knowing. “Finally doing something about it? Or is this just another one of your silent yearning sessions?”

Sophia groans. “Shut up, Manon. It’s not like that.”

“Really?” Manon tilts her head, appraising, gaze flicking back to you across the room. “Because honestly—clean her up a little, ditch the sweats, maybe some eyeliner? I’d totally go for her.” She smiles wickedly.

Then, deliberately, Manon starts to stand.

Slow. Teasing. Like she’s doing it just to prove a point.

Sophia reacts instantly.

Her hand shoots out, fingers wrapping around Manon’s wrist, stopping her mid-rise.

“Don’t” Sophia says quietly. “Please”

Not sharp. Not loud.

But firm enough that Manon freezes.

Manon looks down at Sophia’s hand, then back up at her face. One eyebrow lifts. “Wow,” she says softly. “Okay. That’s new. So… you’re really not interested?”

Sophia’s jaw tightens. “Manon.”

There’s a warning in her voice now, quiet, but unmistakable.

Lara laughs under her breath. “You’re impossible.”

Manon raises her hands in mock surrender, still smirking. “What? I’m just saying. She’s got potential. Broody writer type. Very tragic.”

Sophia doesn’t laugh.

Her eyes stay fixed on you, on the way you’re hunched over your laptop, oblivious, fingers flying like you’re trying to outrun something. Her expression softens again, irritation melting into something else. Something private.

“It’s not that,” Sophia says finally. “She doesn’t need to change anything.”

That shuts Manon up.

Ava notices. She looks between Sophia and you, a subtle tension pulling at her mouth. Megan leans closer to Ava, murmuring something no one but Megan can hear.

Sophia exhales, quieter now, more to herself than anyone else. “I was just saying, she just looks… alone.”

And for the first time, instead of watching from a distance, Sophia shifts in her seat.

Like she’s getting ready to stand. 

But she’s a coward too. 

Always too scared to make a move.

Always waiting for you to do something. But you never do.

-Flashback 11 years ago- 

The park was louder back then. Rusty swings screaming with every arc, the gravel biting into bare knees, the air thick with the smell of sunscreen and cut grass.

Sophia was smaller. So were you.

She was sitting on the edge of the sandbox, legs tucked in, hands wrapped around her favorite toy, a little plastic ballerina with a chipped pink tutu. She’d brought it everywhere that summer.

A shadow fell over her.

Three middle schoolers. Big voices. Bigger confidence.

“Hey, what’s that?” one of them said, already reaching.

“Give it back,” Sophia protested, standing too fast.

They laughed. One of them yanked the toy from her hands and tossed it between the others like a game.

“Stop,” she said again, voice shaking now.

You were a few feet away, building something disastrous out of sticks with Ava and Theo when you noticed. The way Sophia’s shoulders curled inward. The way her hands balled into fists like she was trying not to cry.

You didn’t think.

You never did back then.

You dropped the sticks and ran.

“Hey,” you said, planting yourself in front of them, voice high and wavering but loud enough. “Give it back.”

They looked at you. Then at each other.

And laughed.

One of them shoved you. Hard.

You hit the ground, palms scraping against the gravel. Pain flared sharp and sudden. Another shove to your shoulder for good measure.

“Mind your business, freak.”

They tossed the ballerina onto the sand and walked off, still laughing.

Your knees burned. Your hands stung. But you scrambled up anyway, grabbing the toy and brushing sand off it with shaking fingers.

Sophia ran to you.

You smiled passing her the toy “This is yours right? Here”

“You’re reckless,” she scolded immediately, grabbing your arms to inspect the damage. “And stupid. They were bigger than you.”

You looked at your scraped hands, then up at her.

And smiled. A wide, toothy grin, missing one of your front teeth.

Sophia blinked. “Why are you smiling? You got hurt.”

You shrugged like it didn’t matter. Like it never did.

“My mom always told me,” you said, a little breathless, “that you can smile through anything.”

Sophia stared at you. 

At the blood on your palms. At the dirt on your knees. Anyway, you smiled.

Something in her chest shifted, quiet, permanent, undeniable.

That smile.

That's stupid confidence.

That was the moment.

The moment Sophia Laforteza fell for you.

“Thank you for helping,”  She whispered.

-Flashback over-

School ends in a blur of lockers slamming and shoes squeaking against linoleum. By the time I make it to the tutor center, the sun is already slanting low through the windows, painting the tables gold and tired. 

Tommy Hale is waiting for me, slouched in his chair, foot bouncing like he’s plugged into an outlet. Physics notebook open. Absolutely untouched. I always wonder why on god's green earth were you assigned to tutor this dumbass. 

I sit across from him, setting my bag down. “Alright,” I say. “Vectors. What’s tripping you up?”

He opens his mouth. Then close it.

Then sighs. “Okay, don’t be mad.”

I already regret this. That face I just know he is about to say the dumbest shit ever.

“What?” I ask, my face deadpanned.

He rubs the back of his neck. “Can you… help me write something?”

I blink, confused. “For physics? English? What subject, Prince charming be specific here”

“I don’t like the way you say prince charming by the way He says 

“Oh my god, just straight to the point, Dimples, I don’t have all day” I sighed so visibly loud. 

I don’t mean to be obnoxious and everything but I just don’t have the energy to deal with his bull crap right now.

“Its…Its for a girl.”

I stare at him. What. The. Actually.

“No,” I said immediately. “Absolutely not.”

“Come on,” he groans, leaning forward. “Please. You’re good with words.”

“That’s not why I’m here,” I say. “This is a tutor center, not Cyrano de Bergerac.”

He presses his palms together like he’s praying. “I really like her. And I don’t want to mess it up.”

I hesitate.

Not because I care, but because there’s something painfully earnest in his voice. Something un-Tommy-like. The guy who has everything handed to him. Dating girls left and right, is begging me to write a love letter for him.

Still, I shake my head. “Dude, the entire school likes you. Mr. Popular doesn’t need love letters to score a date.”

He scoffs. “That’s the thing. This girl’s different.”

I breath out sarcastically. “Yes, Yes, They’re always different.”

“No,” he insists. “I tried the normal way. Talking. Joking. Being… me.” He gestures vaguely at himself. “She’s not interested.”

That gives me pause. I can only think of a few people that are, One: Single, Two: Into Guys, and Three: Not interested in Tommy Hale, The soccer captain, the golden, oh I can gag thinking about all the nicknames stuck onto him. 

I laugh it off anyway. “Then maybe take the hint?”

He shakes his head. “I heard from a friend that she likes romantic gestures. Like, big ones.”

My stomach drops. Now I can think of one person. 

Slow. Heavy.

“Who?” I ask, already knowing, I shouldn’t.

He hesitates. Just long enough.

“Sophia Laforteza.”

The name lands like a bruise.

“Oh,” I say, forcing a laugh that sounds wrong even to my own ears. “Yeah. Of course.”

Of course she’d like that.

Of course he’d be the one writing to her.

I look down at the blank page between me, the cursor blinking patiently, mockingly.

My head fills with everything and nothing at once. I know the math of it, I know I don’t have a chance. I know this isn’t some hidden path where things turn out differently. This is real life, and in real life, Sophia Laforteza doesn’t end up with girls like me.

But still.

Somewhere deep, stupid, and quiet, I’d always wanted to know her better. Not the version everyone sees. Just her. I’d carried the what-ifs around like contraband, never taking them out, never daring to look too closely.

And now here they were, dissolving.

Because she would like him. Because he makes sense.

…maybe this is…this is the closet I get. Maybe this is the loophole.

I swallow, fingers hovering over the keyboard. The screen is still blank, a white space waiting to be filled with something honest, something that isn’t mine to give.

“What do you even want to say to her?” I ask quietly.

Tommy brightens immediately, relief flooding his face. “I don’t know. That’s why I need you. You always know how to say things.”

I almost laughed at that. Almost.

“Why do you like her?” I ask instead, stalling. “Like—actually like.”

He shrugs, scratching his head. “She’s Pretty. And… different. She doesn’t care that I’m captain or whatever. She’s just—cool.”

That’s it. That’s all he’s got.  My chest tightens, something sharp and ugly twisting under my ribs. Of course. Of course that’s enough for him. Of course that’s all it takes to want someone like her.

I nod anyway. “Okay.”

I start typing.

The words come too easily. They always do. Soft sentences. Careful ones. The kind that linger. The kind that sounds like someone who notices things—like the way she listens when people talk, or how she never underestimates kindness, or how the world seems steadier when she smiles.

I don’t write it for Tommy. I write it as if I’m writing it to her. Every sentence is something I’ve already said in my head a thousand times. Every line feels like a confession I’m not brave enough to make out loud.

Tommy leans over my shoulder, grinning. “Damn,” he says. “That’s… really good.”

Yeah, I think. I know.

“What do you think?” he asks. “Is it too much?”

I shake my head. “No. She’ll like it.”

Because it’s everything I know she would.

Because it’s everything I wish I could be.

I hit save and slid the laptop toward him, my hands suddenly cold.

“Just… make sure you mean it,” I say.

He nods, all sincerity. “I do.”

And I believe him.

That’s the worst part.

Because we live in different worlds, him, with his easy smiles and endless chances, and me, hiding behind words that were never meant to be borrowed.

And somehow, even when I’m the one writing the love story,

I still don’t get to be in it, Cause I wrote myself out of it.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The next day, the hallway feels longer than usual.

Lockers slam, voices overlap, the smell of cheap coffee and perfume hangs in the air but I notice none of it. My eyes are fixed down the corridor, heart lodged somewhere in my throat.

And then I see her. Beautiful as always. But my mind is still replaying yesterday’s events. 

Sophia stands by her locker, sunlight from the high windows catching in her hair, making her look unreal in that unfair, effortless way she always does. Daniela is beside her, leaning against the lockers like she owns the place. Manon and Lara hover nearby, phones half-forgotten in their hands.

Tommy approaches from the opposite end.

I slow without realizing it, feet dragging as if my body is trying to give my mind time to catch up.

I shouldn’t watch but I do anyway.

Tommy clears his throat. I can almost hear him from here. He says her name. Sophia looks up, surprised but polite, that careful smile already in place.

He hands her the letter.

Just like that.

A folded piece of paper. My words, My handwriting. My thoughts, My love used to break my heart.

Sophia blinks, confused for half a second, then takes it. “Oh—um. Thank you.”

Tommy grins, rubs the back of his neck, mumbles something I can’t hear. Then he leaves, throwing me a quick look as he passes, excited, hopeful.

I stopped walking altogether.

Sophia opens the letter.

I see it happen in real time: the way her posture changes, the way her eyes slow as they move across the page. The hallway noise fades around her, like she’s stepped into a different world.

Daniela leans in. “What is it?”

Sophia doesn’t answer right away. She keeps reading.

Manon peers over her shoulder. “Is that—wait, is that from Tommy?”

Sophia nods absently, still focused.

Lara laughs softly. “I told you he had it in him.”

Something sharp twists in my chest.

Sophia finally looks up, brows slightly drawn together—not displeased. Thoughtful. Almost… moved.

“This is…” she trails off.

Daniela beams. “Good, right? I knew he’d surprise you.”

Sophia folds the letter carefully, fingers lingering on the crease. “It’s really beautiful,” she 

says slowly. “Just… unexpected.”

Manon tilts her head. “Unexpected how?”

Sophia hesitates. “It feels… personal. I didn't know he could write like this...it's really...deep.”

My breath catches.

Daniela squeals quietly. “Oh my god. That’s so romantic.”

Lara nudges Sophia. “You should give him a chance. At least one date.”

Sophia glances down at the letter again. For a moment, her eyes flicker, uncertain, searching, like she’s trying to place a feeling she doesn’t have a name for.

Then she nods. “Yeah,” she says softly. “Maybe I should.”

My  chest tightens.

The bell rings, sharp and unforgiving, snapping the hallway back into motion. Sophia and her friends move off together, still talking, still smiling.

She tucks the letter into her bag like it’s something precious.

I stand there a moment longer than I should. Watching the girl I love fall for my words, just not my name.

The bell finishes ringing, and I’m still standing there when a hand slams into my shoulder.

Hard.

“What the hell—”

I barely have time to turn before someone shoves me again, this time steering, corralling. Fingers dig into the fabric of my hoodie. I stumble, shoes squeaking uselessly against the floor.

“Hey—Hey—stop—”

A door swings open. I’m pushed inside. The room smells like dust and old metal, an unused equipment storage room, lights flickering weakly overhead. The door slams shut behind me with a sound that echoes too loud in the small space.

Luke. James. Cam. Football jackets. Smug faces. The kind of boys who walk the halls like they own them.

Luke crosses his arms, jaw tight. “You think you’re funny?”

My heart pounds, but my voice stays flat. Quiet. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

James laughs, sharp and humorless. “Physics. Yesterday. Answer sheet.”

Cam steps closer, invading my space. I can smell his cologne, cheap, aggressive. “You gave us the wrong one.”

I swallow. Of course it was them. I’d mixed the sheets on purpose, just a few wrong answers slipped in. Insurance. I’d always done that. I never expected these dumbass to get A+—

Luke shoves me back into a shelf. Metal rattles. My shoulder burns. “You cost us a test,” he snaps. “Coach’s pissed.”

“I didn’t force you to cheat,” I say before I can stop myself. That’s the wrong thing to say.

Cam scoffs. “Listen to the nerd.”

James grabs my backpack and dumps it onto the floor. Papers scatter. A notebook slides open, pages filled with cramped handwriting, lyrics, half-finished poems.

Luke kicks it aside. “You think you’re better than us?”

"I'm just smart enough to know that you aren't getting above a C-"

Another shove. I stumble, catch myself on the wall, chest tight, breath shallow. I don’t fight back. I never do. Fighting just makes it worse.

A punch lands, more force than precision, knocking the air out of me. My vision spots. 

“Don’t fuck this up” James says. Landing another punch “It was that simple"

The door opens again, suddenly. 

“Hey!” A voice cuts through the room. Tommy.

Luke turns. “Mind your business, Hale.”

Tommy’s face is red, furious in a way I rarely see. He steps between me and them without hesitation. “Get out.”

Cam laughs. “Really, Theo, Her?”

Tommy doesn’t answer. He just stands there, solid, unyielding. Untouchable.

There’s a tense beat. Then Luke scoffs. “Whatever. Not worth it.”

They shove past Tommy on the way out, shoulders colliding on purpose. The door slams again, leaving silence behind.

My knees feel weak. I slid down the wall, sitting on the cold floor, hands shaking despite myself.

Tommy turns to me, anger melting into something softer. “Are you okay?”

I nod automatically. Lie automatically.  “Yeah.”

I look away, staring at the scattered pages on the floor. My words. My work. Stepped on.

“I don’t need you saving me,” I say quietly. “It just makes it worse.”

Tommy opens his mouth, then closes it. He doesn’t understand, but he nods anyway.

As I gather my things, my hands tremble, adrenaline still buzzing under my skin. And all I can think is this, I gave him the words that made her heart flutter. And this is the price I pay for staying invisible.

By the time lunch rolls around, the bruise on my shoulder has settled into a dull, persistent ache—no longer sharp, just constant, like something humming under my skin.

I duck into the bathroom before the cafeteria, lock myself in front of the mirror, and start cleaning myself up.

The fluorescent lights are unforgiving. They catch everything—the split skin on my lip, the purpling bruise blooming along my jaw. I dab at the dried blood with wet paper towels, hissing when it stings, shoulders tensing as I lean closer to the sink.

Focus. Just fix it. Get through the day.

“You good there?”

The voice comes from right beside me.

I jolt, eyes snapping up. I hadn’t even noticed someone else was there, too busy reconstructing my face.

Sophia stands at the sink next to mine, smiling softly at her reflection as she adjusts a strand of hair, like this is the most normal thing in the world.

“Oh—yeah,” I say quickly, giving her a smile that immediately pulls at the bruise. “I’m great.”

Sophia’s smile curves, amused but concerned. “Are you really smiling with a bruised face?”

I shrug, embarrassed. “You can smile through anything.”

Her expression stills.

Just for a second.

Then she smiles again, softer this time, like she’s remembering something. “Yeah,” she says quietly.

I look over at her with my bruised face “Hey—can you pass me a tissue?” Pointing at the dispenser.

She shakes her head immediately. “No, not those. Wait.”

She opens her purse, rifling through it before pulling out a small packet of pocket tissues. “Here,” she says, handing it to me like it’s a secret.

Of course she carries her own.

She steps closer, eyes narrowing slightly as she looks at my face. Too close. Close enough that I can smell her shampoo, something clean and faintly sweet. She slowly gets ready to leave, giving me a small smile “Good luck there, Rocky”

A voice in my head screams. Say something. Don’t let her walk away. This might be the last time I ever get to talk to her. Just anything. 

I take a breath. “Um—do you… have any makeup?”

She turns and tilts her head. “Makeup?”

“Yeah,” I say, gesturing vaguely at my face. “Just—so it’s less… this.”

Understanding clicks instantly.

“Oh,” she smiles. “Yeah. I’ve got you.”

My heart stutters.

“Sit,” she says, nodding toward the counter. “It’ll be easier.”

I hop up, legs dangling slightly, trying very hard not to look like I might pass out. She steps between me and the sink, setting her bag down, completely unfazed by how close she is now.

She works carefully, methodically, dabbing concealer, blending gently, pausing every time I flinch.

“Does that hurt?” she asks softly.

“Only a little,” I lied.

Her fingers are warm. Steady. She concentrates like this matters, like I matter. 

“There,” she says after a moment, leaning back to examine her work. “Much better.”

I look in the mirror.

The bruises are still there, but softened, hidden just enough. When I look back at her, she’s already smiling, proud in a quiet way.

“Thank you,” I say, voice barely above a breath.

She shrugs lightly. “Anytime.”

And for a moment, just one fragile, stolen moment, the world feels smaller. 

Quieter. Like maybe this is something worth holding onto.

------------

After school, the weight in my chest eases just a little. Smiling thinking about today. Just that moment replaying in my mind. 

I walked toward the parking lot with Ava and Theo, backpacks slung low, the sky washed in late-afternoon gold. Theo’s rambling about some obscure chord progression he swears changed his life, while Ava hums under her breath, fingers tapping an invisible fretboard against her thigh.

“I’m telling you,” Theo says, animated, “if you layer it under the bridge, it’ll sound insane.”

I nod, half-listening. “I found something similar in the music room. Old sheet music. The lyrics were trash, but the melody—”

“You’re both wrong,” Ava cuts in, smirking. “It needs space. Let it breathe.”

I was about to argue when—“YO!”

I barely have time to react before a blur of energy barrels toward me. Tommy. He skids to a stop, breathless, phone clutched in his hand like it’s holy scripture. His face is split by the widest grin I’ve ever seen.

“She texted me,” he blurted out.

Sophia.

He shoves the phone in my face. A single message glows on the screen.

Hey! I read your letter. It was really sweet. I didn’t expect it—but thank you :)

Tommy looks like he might levitate. “She liked it. She actually liked it.”

Theo’s smile disappears.

“Hey Tommy,” he says flatly, already stepping back. “I—I forgot something. I’ll catch you guys later.”

“Oh. hey” Tommy smiles but Theo was already gone, before he could really respond.

I blink, confused, watching him retreat. That’s weird. Theo never just… leaves.

Ava notices too. Her eyes flick to Theo’s back, then to me. She hesitates, then clears her throat.

“I’ll go make sure he doesn’t trip into traffic,” she says lightly. “Text me later, yeah?”

She squeezes my arm before walking off, deliberately slow, giving my space I didn’t ask for.

It’s just me and Tommy now. He looks at me, still grinning. “Okay. What should I say back?”

I stare at the phone like it’s a live wire. “Tommy,” I say carefully, “I did my part. The letter was the help. This is… you.”

He winces. “I know, I know, but—” He drags a hand through his hair. “I don’t wanna mess it up.”

I exhale. Of course he doesn’t.

“Just be yourself,” I offer weakly.

He makes a face. “That’s what I’m scared of.”

I close my eyes for half a second. Losing my power and mind. Being delusional over a 5 minute interaction but she is head over heels for him. 

“Please,” he says. “Just help me respond. One text. That’s it. I swear.”

I shouldn’t. I know I shouldn’t.

But he’s looking at me like I’ll always save him. Like I own him this. And maybe Sophia deserves this.

“Fine,” I mutter. “Give me the phone.”

Tommy lights up immediately, handing it over.

My thumbs move fast, muscle memory takes over before my heart can catch up. I keep it short. Gentle. 

I’m really glad you read it. If you’d like, maybe we could go out some time, no pressure. Coffee this Friday?

I hand the phone back, chest tight. “Send that.”

He reads it once. Twice.

“That’s perfect,” he says, “Thanks”

Before I can stop him, he hits send. Three dots appear almost instantly.

My breath catches.

Then:

I’d like that. Friday sounds good :)

Tommy lets out a sound somewhere between a laugh and a shout, grabbing my shoulders and shaking me like he’s just won the lottery. “Shit, man. You’re a genius.”

I force a smile, because that’s what I do. Because it’s easier than explaining the knot in my chest, easier than saying this isn’t really mine to celebrate.

But his hands tighten. Right on the bruise. Pain flares white-hot.

“Ah—let go—ouch,”I gasp, twisting away. “You got me.”

Tommy freezes instantly. “Oh shit—my bad.” He releases me like I’ve burned him, eyes dropping to my face, concern flashing through the grin. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” I say quickly, rolling my  shoulder, even though it still throbs. “I’m fine.”

“Anyways, Friday,” he says, still buzzing. “I’m taking Sophia Laforteza on a date.”

I nod. “Yeah.”

Friday.

As he walks backward toward his car, still staring at his phone, I stand there rooted to the pavement, the echo of his happiness ringing in my ears.

I did exactly what he asked.

I get into my car and turn the engine on. The radio crackles to life, some half-familiar indie song I’ve probably overanalyzed in an English essay at some point. I don’t change it. I don’t really hear it either. It just exists in the background, a ghost of sound.

I sat there. Hands on the steering wheel. Knuckles pale. Chest tight, like something heavy is pressing down from the inside.

Friday. The word loops in my head like a bad chorus. Friday. Friday. Friday.

I pull out of the parking lot, tires humming against the asphalt, the school shrinking in the rearview mirror. Lockers, hallways, Sophia’s smile in the bathroom mirror, it all collapses into a blur. Houses streak past. Stop signs. Bare trees clawing at the sky. Everything feels slightly tilted, like I’m watching my life through scratched glass.

I grab my phone. Theo doesn’t just leave. Not like that. I called him once.

Straight to voicemail. Again. Nothing.

My jaw clenches. I switch lanes too fast, earning a honk. I barely registered. I tried Ava. It rings this time.

“Hey,” she answers. Her voice is light—but wrong. Too light. Like she’s propping it up with both hands.

“Where are you?” I ask, already turning the wheel harder than necessary.

There’s a pause. Wind rushes through the speaker. I hear the faint creak of metal—chains.

“…We’re at the park,” she says finally. “Across from school.”

My grip tightens. “Stay there.”

“Ca—”

I hang up before she can finish.

The park comes into view less than a minute later. Rusted swings, faded slides, the same chipped bench we’ve sat on a hundred times since we were kids. I pull up too fast, brakes screeching softly as I park crookedly along the curb.

They’re exactly where she said they’d be.

Theo is slouched on the swing, feet dragging lazy lines into the dirt, head tipped back like he’s staring at the sky, or avoiding everything else. Ava stands nearby, arms crossed, weight shifted onto one hip, jaw set tight.

I cut the engine and stepped out.

Neither of them looks surprised to see me.

“Get in,” I say flatly.

Theo doesn’t move.

Ava sighs. “Hey. Don’t start.”

“Please,” I beg. “I’m leaving. And I need you guys to get in.”

Theo finally looks at me then. His eyes are glassy, not drunk, not high. Just… distant. Like he’s miles away.

“You good?” I ask, softer now despite myself.

He scoffs, kicking at the ground. “Yeah. I’m great. Just watching the world burn.”

“Don’t do that,” Ava says sharply. “Don’t be dramatic.”

Theo laughs, short and humorless. “Oh, so when she spirals it’s poetic, but when I do it—”

“Get in the car,” I repeat, voice low. Not angry. Controlled. Dangerous in the way that comes from holding too much in.

Theo studies me for a moment. Then, wordlessly, he pushes himself off the swing and walks toward the car. Ava follows, shooting me a look that says later.

We pile in.

No music. No talking.

The car pulls away from the park, the swings creaking behind us in the wind, still moving long after no one’s there to push them.

And I don’t know why, but I get the sinking feeling that this, this quiet, this tension, this almost-something is the beginning of everything unraveling.

No one speaks.

The park disappears in the rearview mirror, the swings still swaying long after we’ve left, empty, restless, like they don’t know when to stop.

After a minute, I glance at Ava. “What was that?”

She keeps her eyes on the window. “Nothing.”

I scoff softly. “It wasn’t nothing.”

Theo shifts in the backseat, leather creaking under him. “Drop it.”

My grip tightens on the steering wheel. “I’m not trying to start something. I just—” I exhale. “You walked away. That’s not like you.”

Theo lets out a short, humorless laugh. “Funny. Seems like people are doing a lot of things they don’t usually do lately.”

Ava turns sharply. “Theo.”

I swallow. The road stretches out in front of us, familiar cracks in the pavement passing by like old scars. “Is this about Tommy?”

Silence.

The kind that presses in on your ears.

Theo doesn’t answer.

Which is answer enough.

I keep my eyes forward. “I was helping him,” I say quietly. “That’s it.”

“Yeah,” Theo says. Flat. Sharp. “Helping him get the girl you’ve been in love with since forever.”

Ava inhales sharply. “Theo—”

“No,” he cuts in. “Someone had to say it.”

My chest tightens, air suddenly hard to come by. I don’t argue. I don’t defend myself. There’s no point. The truth sits heavy between us, undeniable.

Ava leans her head against the window, voice softer now. Tired. “You’re allowed to want things too, you know.” A beat. “I’m talking to the both of you.”

The words land harder than the punches from earlier. Harder than the bruise blooming under my jacket.

I turn onto our street, the sun dipping low behind the houses, casting long shadows across the road. Everything looks the same as it always has, mailboxes, driveways, trees we grew up under.

The car keeps moving.

By the time we’re back at the twin’s house, the air feels indifferent, the truth layered within it. 

Ava's room has warm fairy lights pinned crookedly along the walls, some sagging, some barely holding on. Posters curl at the corners. Guitars lean against every available surface, abandoned mid-thought, mid-feeling.

This is where I breathe easier.

I sit cross-legged on the floor, bass resting against my knee. Changing into something more comfortable, more casual.

Ava perches on her bed with her guitar, curls tucked behind her ear, already half lost in the rhythm. Theo lounges near the window, hoodie half-zipped, foot tapping an uneven beat against the wall.

“Okay,” Ava says, strumming lightly. “From the top. The bridge needs more space.”

I nod and play.

The notes come out low and steady, grounding in the way only muscle memory can be. My fingers move without asking permission. For a few minutes, everything clicks. The bruise fades. The tension loosens. Music gives me that mercy, it lets me exist without explaining myself.

Theo hums along at first.

Then I hear it.

The soft, unmistakable flick of a lighter.

I look up just in time to see Theo lifting a blunt to his lips.

Ava reacts instantly.

“Oh, hell no.”

She lunges forward and smacks it straight out of his hand. It hits the floor, the ember dying with a hiss.

“Are you serious?” she snaps. “Inside my room?”

Theo groans, scrubbing a hand down his face. “Jesus, Ava. I’m stressed.”

“So are we,” she fires back. “You don’t see us hotboxing my childhood bedroom.”

I stay quiet, bass strings still vibrating faintly beneath my fingers, the note dying too slowly.

Theo slumps back against the wall, jaw clenched. “Whatever.”

A few minutes pass. We try to start again, but the song never quite finds its footing. Theo’s eyes are glassy, hinting something more. 

Then he laughs. Soft. Bitter. “You know what I don’t get?”

Ava freezes mid-chord. “Theo.”

He ignores her, eyes locking onto me. “You always hated Tommy. Like—really hated him.”

I stiffen. “That’s not true.”

He scoffs. “You used to talk shit all the time. About how easy his life is. About how people just hand him things.”

“That was—” I stop myself. Swallow. “That was before.”

“Before what?” he pressed. “Before you started writing his love letters? Before he started talking to Sophia?”

Ava sets her guitar down hard. “Okay. Stop.”

“No,” Theo says, sitting up straighter now, sharp despite the haze. “I’m genuinely asking. When did you two become buddy-buddy?”

The bass feels heavier in my hands. “We’ve always been friends.”

“Bullshit,” Theo snaps. “You tolerated him. Now suddenly you’re bending over backward to help him get Sophia?”

Her name tightens something painful in my chest.

Ava looks between us, torn. “Theo, you’re not being fair.”

“I am,” he insists. “Because it’s always the same with them.” He gestures vaguely, like he means more than just Tommy. “They don’t have to try. And you—” His eyes burn into me. “You always let them get away with it”

Silence stretches, thick and uncomfortable.

I stare down at my bass, thumb tracing the worn edge of the pickguard, grounding myself.

“I didn’t do it for him,” I say quietly. The words sit there, fragile. “I did it because I thought… maybe this was the closest I’d ever get.”

“You’re a coward Y/N Y/LN” Theo said coldly

“I know” I whispered back.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

A few months pass. Slowly. Quietly. Inevitably. By winter, it’s official, the it couple of the school.

Sophia Laforteza and Tommy Hale.

Their names get said together like a headline, like they were always meant to be paired. People smile when they pass in the halls. Teachers tease them. Friends nudge and whisper. It’s easy, effortless, and public.

And me?

I don’t do anything dramatic. I don’t cry in bathrooms or tear pages out of notebooks. I don’t confess. I don’t explode. I just… break. Quietly. On the inside.

So I do what I’ve always done.

I keep writing.

My novel gets thicker, heavier. Chapters stack up like proof that I still exist somewhere. Every feeling I can’t say out loud gets buried in metaphors and half-finished sentences, love, resentment, longing, all of it filtered into words that aren’t mine anymore.

Life keeps moving.

And somehow, because life has a cruel sense of humor, I start seeing Sophia more than ever.

Tommy likes me. Genuinely. He calls me one of his closest friends now, insists I sit with them at lunch, walk with them between classes, and hang out after school. He wants his worlds to overlap, his friends, his girlfriend, his life—everything neat and whole.

So I let it happen.

I sit at their table. I listen to Tommy talk about practice, about games, about Sophia like she’s something precious he still can’t believe he gets to hold. I laugh when I’m supposed to. I nod. I give advice when he asks.

Sophia is kind. She always has been.

She asks about my writing. Compliments my bass playing when she comes to watch Ava and me rehearse. Sometimes she looks at me a second too long, like she’s trying to remember something she’s misplaced.

And every time, I look away. Because I’m careful now. 

But things with Theo?

They don’t get better. They get worse.

He stops waiting for me after class. Stops showing up to rehearsals on time. When he does show, he’s sharper, either too quiet or too loud in all the wrong ways. The jokes turn mean. The silences stretch.

He hates being around Tommy. Hates the way I orbit that world now. Hates the way I pretend everything’s fine.

We start fighting over nothing, missed practices, forgotten rides, throwaway comments that cut deeper than they should. Ava tries to mediate, tries to hold us together, but even she’s starting to look tired.

And I know. I know this isn’t just about Tommy.

It’s about everything I won’t say. Everything I keep swallowing. Everything that keeps changing while Theo stands still, watching it happen.

I’m losing him.

Slowly. Quietly.

The same way I lost her.

–----

Sophia has rehearsals after school for the spring play, and it's been a recent habit to hang around with Tommy while we wait for rehearsals to end. The routine was the same, His soccer practice ended and we hung on the bleachers waiting for Sophia rehearsals to end.

Sitting on the bleachers, the field emptying out around us, then his phone buzzes. He glances at the screen, groans, then answers.

“Yeah, Coach… yeah, I know… I’m on my way.”

He hangs up and looks at me apologetically. “Captain stuff. Last minute.”

I nod, already used to this. “Go.”

He hesitates, then glances toward the theater building. “Hey, Sophia’s rehearsal ends in like fifteen. Can you wait for her? Tell her I’m sorry I bailed.”

My stomach tightens. “Yeah. Sure.”

“And—” he adds quickly, “could you drive her home? I’ll make it up to her later, promise.”

I should say no.

I don’t.

“Okay,” I say.

Tommy claps my shoulder lightly, grateful, and jogs off toward the locker rooms.

So I wait. Walking to the parking lot, barely any cars in sight. 

I lean against my car in the parking lot, the air cooling as the sky shifts toward dusk. Laughter and music drift out from the theater doors in bursts. I check my phone. Pretend not to rehearse what I’ll say.

When the doors finally open, students spill out in clusters, voices loud and animated. Then I see her.

Sophia steps outside, hair pulled back, script tucked under her arm, glowing in that way people do when they’ve been doing something they love.

She spots me and pauses.

“Oh,” she says, smiling. “Hey.”

“Hey,” I reply, suddenly too aware of my hands. “Tommy got called in for captain stuff. He asked me to tell you he’s really sorry.”

She laughs softly, unsurprised. “Of course he did.”

I hesitated, then added, “He also asked if I could drive you home.”

She studies my face for a second—just long enough to make my chest tighten—then nods. “Yeah. That’s fine. Thanks.”

The drive is quiet at first.

The radio plays low, something acoustic and gentle. Streetlights flicker on one by one as we pull onto the road. I focus on the traffic, the lane lines, anything but the fact that she’s sitting in the passenger seat of my car.

“How was the rehearsal?” I ask eventually.

She lights up immediately, talking about blocking, about a song they’re reworking, about a moment that finally clicked. I listen. Really listen. It’s easy with her.

At a red light, she glances over. “Thanks for waiting, by the way.”

“Anytime,” I say.

And I mean it.

She watches the street ahead for a moment, then looks back at me, a little sheepish, like she’s debating something. “Hey, do you mind stopping at the fro-yo place on Sixth Street?”

I blink. “Fro-yo?”

She nods, smiling. “Yeah. It’s kind of a tradition of mine after rehearsals. Helps me decompress.”

I hesitate for half a second, long enough to remember I’m not supposed to want moments like this but then I shrug. “Sure.”

Her smile widens, genuine and warm. “Really?”

“Yeah,” I say, easing the car forward as the light turns green. “It’s on the way.”

“Thank you,” she says, already pulling her hair out of its tie, letting it fall loose around her shoulders. “Tommy usually forgets to stop by.”

The words land softly, but they stick.

We pulled into the froyo place a few minutes later. It’s bright inside, all neon signs and pastel walls, the kind of place that smells like sugar and cold air. There’s only a handful of people inside, mostly kids and a couple of teens killing time.

She hops out of the car first, holding the door open for me. “My treat,” she says, already grabbing a cup.

“I can pay—”

“Nope,” she cuts in lightly. “You drove.”

I let it go.

We stand side by side, filling our cups. She’s meticulous, layering flavors carefully, toppings arranged with surprising precision. I dump everything in like I always do.

She laughs when she notices. “You’re chaotic.”

“Efficient,” I correct.

We pay, then slide into a booth by the window. The spoon feels cold in my hand.

“This is nice,” she says after a moment, glancing around. “Quiet.”

“Yeah,” I agree. “It is.”

She eats a few bites, then looks at me again, thoughtful. “You know… I don’t really get to hang out with you much.”

My chest tightens. “Yeah.”

“I’d like to,” she adds quickly. “If that’s okay.”

I nod before my brain can catch up. “Yeah. That’s okay.”

Her smile is soft, almost relieved.

For a moment, it feels like the world has narrowed down to just this booth, this hum of freezers, this ordinary, dangerous happiness.

And I know, I’m standing way too close to something I shouldn’t want.

Sophia’s spoon slows, then stops halfway to her mouth. She glances over at me, brows knitting together like she’s circling a thought she’s not sure she wants to land.

“Hey,” she says carefully. “Do you know anything about… actually nothing.”

I laugh, light, a little too quick. “What? Don’t do that to me. You can ask. I don’t bite.”

She exhales, relieved, then nods to herself. “Well, you tutor Tommy, right?”

“Unfortunately,” I say dryly.

She smiles, then looks down at her froyo, tracing the surface with her spoon. “Does he… ask you stuff?”

I stiffen, just barely. “What kind of stuff?”

She hesitates again. “Like… how to write things. Or say romantic stuff.”

I laugh louder this time, because if I don’t, I might actually break. “What, you don’t believe Mr. Golden Boy can be romantic?”

“No, no, it’s not that,” she says quickly. Then she winces. “Okay. Can we just be girls for a second? Like forget about Tommy.”

My chest tightens. I nod. “Yeah. Okay.”

She leans back against the booth, eyes on the ceiling for a moment. “I just… I feel like he was really romantic at the beginning. With the letters.”

My spoon freezes midair.

“The letters,” she continues, oblivious, “they were beautiful. Like—really beautiful. Thoughtful. Specific. The kind of stuff that makes you feel seen, you know?”

I nod slowly, my throat dry. “Yeah. I get that.”

“But lately…” She trails off, frowning. “It’s not bad. He’s still sweet. It’s just—different. Like the way he talks in texts or in person doesn’t always match the way he writes.”

My heart starts pounding, slow and heavy.

“I feel crazy even saying this,” she adds with a small laugh. “Like I’m overthinking it.”

“No,” I say quietly, too fast. “You’re not.”

She looks at me then, really looks at me. “You don’t think so?”

I shake my head. “Sometimes people are better on paper,” I say carefully. “Doesn’t mean they’re lying. Just… means they think more when they write.”

She hums, considering. “That makes sense.”

A beat. Then, softer “Those letters felt like they came from someone who notices little things. Like someone who listens.”

My fingers curl tighter around my spoon. She looks back down at her cup. “I guess I just miss that version.”

Something inside me aches, deep and sharp and stupid.

“Have you told him that?” I ask.

She shakes her head. “No. I don’t want to hurt his feelings.”

Of course she doesn’t.

She glances up at me again, eyes searching. “He doesn’t ask you how to write stuff for me, right?”

The question hangs there. Heavy. Dangerous. I force myself to meet her gaze.

“No,” I say. It’s not a lie. It’s just not the whole truth.

She relaxes, smiling a little. “Good. That’d be weird, right?”

“Yeah,” I say, swallowing. “Weird.”

She laughs, light and unknowing, and takes another bite of froyo.

I watch her for a second too long, realizing with painful clarity. I didn’t just help him get the girl. I taught him how to sound like me. And now I’m sitting across from her, listening to her miss something she never knew wasn’t real.

I stir my melting froyo, the sweetness suddenly too much. I’m standing way too close to something I shouldn’t want. And I don’t know how to step back without everything falling apart.

“Sorry for the serious mood, Rocky,” she says, offering a small, apologetic smile.

“No, it’s okay,” I replied, forcing myself to breathe. Then I grin, something lighter breaking through. “You know what we need.”

She raises an eyebrow. “What?”

“A good drive,” I say. “Let me take you somewhere.”

Her smile widens, playful now. “Are you going to kidnap me?”

“Maybe,” I shrug. “Do you trust me?”

She doesn’t hesitate. “Yeah.”

That alone almost undoes me.

We toss our cups and walk out into the cooling evening, the sky washed in soft pinks and blues. The car doors thud shut, familiar, grounding. I pull out onto the road, music low, windows cracked just enough to let the air in.

She hums along absentmindedly as we drive.

When I park, she looks around, confused at first, then something shifts in her expression.

The park is quiet. Swings creak gently in the breeze. The playground is smaller than I remember, but it’s all still here.

“This place…” she murmurs.

“I used to come here a lot,” I say, stepping out. “When I was a kid.”

She follows me, hands tucked into her jacket sleeves. “Yeah?”

I nod, walking toward the swings. “There’s this story I’ve never really told anyone.”

She sits on one of the swings, pushing off lightly. “I’m listening.”

I hesitate, then take the swing beside her. The chains rattle softly.

“When I was younger,” I begin, eyes fixed on the ground, “I was here with Theo and Ava. And there was this girl—older kids were messing with her. Took her toy. She looked so small, so angry, trying not to cry.”

Sophia’s grip tightens on the chains, but she says nothing.

“I don’t know what came over me,” I continued. “I just… stepped in. Told them to knock it off. Didn’t go great. I got shoved around instead.”

She lets out a quiet breath.

“But then,” I say, smiling faintly, “she helped me up. Started scolding me. Told me I was reckless. Stupid.”

Sophia laughs softly. “Sounds like her.”

I didn't catch it. “I just smiled at her,” I go on. “Big, dumb smile. And she got even more mad, because I was bleeding and still smiling.”

The swings slow.

“That was it,” I say. “That moment stuck with me. I never even knew her name. Never saw her again.”

I finally looked over.

Sophia isn’t swinging anymore.

She’s staring at me like the ground has shifted beneath her feet. Like a memory has risen up and wrapped itself around her chest.

“Y/N, that was m—” Sophia hesitates, then exhales a small laugh. “Really cute.”

“‘M-really cute,’” I repeat, grinning. “Are we sure ‘m-really’ is a word?”

“Shut up,” she says, cheeks flushing instantly.

“You’re m-really cute right now,” I joke and immediately regret it.

Her smile softens instead of vanishing. She tilts her head slightly, eyes searching mine. “I’m… cute?” she asks, like the word doesn’t usually belong to her.

Well. She heard it. No backing out now.

“Yeah,” I say quietly. “You are. Really cute.”

She blinks, surprised.

“And it’s funny,” I add, trying to explain the feeling before I lose the nerve, “because calling you pretty is the obvious thing. Everyone does that.”

I swallow.

“But calling you cute is kind of stupid,” I admit, a nervous laugh slipping out, “because there are so many better things to say about you.”

She watches me closely now, like she’s afraid to interrupt.

“I could talk about how you notice things other people don’t. Or how you’re kind without making a show of it. Or how you make places feel different just by being there.” My voice drops. “Cute feels too small for all of that.”

Silence settles between us, heavy but not uncomfortable.

Sophia exhales, slowly. “You’re… really bad at compliments,” she says softly.

The moment lingers a second too long, fragile, like it’ll shatter if either of us moves too fast. So I’m the one who breaks it.

I smile lightly, chuckling at her "I know"

I push myself up from the swing, the chains creaking softly. “Let’s get you home.”

She nods, a little dazed, and follows me across the playground. The night air feels cooler now, heavier. Crickets chirp somewhere beyond the fence. The park looks smaller than it did in my memory.

We get into the car.

I start the engine. The radio stays off. It’s not awkward silence, just full. Packed with things neither of us knows how to say without changing everything.

Streetlights flicker past, painting her face in brief flashes of gold. She watches the road ahead, hands folded in her lap. Once, her knee brushes mine when I turn, and my heart stutters like it’s missed a step.

I don’t look at her. I don’t trust myself to.

When I pull up in front of her house, I put the car in park and let the engine idle. The porch light is on. Someone’s shadow moves behind the curtains.

“Thanks for tonight,” she says quietly.

“Anytime,” I reply, and this time it feels dangerous how true it is.

She hesitates, fingers on the door handle, then looks back at me. There’s something unsaid in her eyes. Something tender. Something impossible.

“Goodnight,” she says.

“Goodnight, Sophia.”

She steps out, closes the door gently, and walks up the driveway without looking back.

I wait until the door clicks shut, until the porch light flicks off, until her silhouette disappears completely.

Then I pull away.

My chest aches the entire drive home, a slow, spreading pressure that makes it hard to breathe. The road blurs, familiar turns passing without me really seeing them. The radio stays silent. I don’t deserve music right now.

I shouldn’t have done all this. Shouldn’t have taken her there. Shouldn’t have said any of it.

What kind of friend does that?

Tommy trusted me. Asked me to help him, not this. Not whatever line I let myself hover over tonight. I didn’t kiss her. I didn’t say I loved her. But it feels worse somehow.

I replay the moment over and over. Her smile. The way she said my name. The way she looked at me like I was… something.

Guilt coils tight in my stomach. Because a part of me, small, quiet, honest, doesn’t regret it.

That part keeps whispering that she listened in a way no one ever does. That she laughed with me, not at me. For a few minutes on those swings, it felt like the world narrowed down to just us, and I fit.

I grip the steering wheel harder.

This is how I always mess things up. By wanting. By hoping. By letting myself believe I could be more than the quiet girl in the corner, the helper, the safe option.

I pull into my driveway and sit there, engine running, forehead resting against the wheel.

I did the right thing, I tell myself. I have to believe that.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Lunch feels… almost normal.

Tommy’s laughing so hard he nearly chokes on his fries, knocking his tray with his elbow as he does. I’m mid-story, something stupid about a substitute teacher mixing up George Orwell and Rad Bradbury again and for a moment, I forget to be careful.

“Okay, but that’s actually insane,” he says “I swear this school hires anyone.”

I snort. “Low standards. Very on brand.”

He grins, then nudges my arm. Gentler this time. “Hey. Thanks again for taking Sophia home yesterday. Coach totally blindsided me with that call.”

“It’s fine,” I say quickly. “Really. She got home safe.”

“I owe you,” he says, sincere. “Seriously.”

“You don’t,” I reply, because I don’t know how to accept that kind of thing without feeling like I’m stealing something.

Across the cafeteria, I spot Ava llaughing.

Megan’s there, her legs tucked up on the bench beside Ava, fingers absentmindedly tracing circles on Ava’s wrist. Lara and Yoonchae are leaning in close, whispering about something on Yoonchae’s phone. Dani’s talking with her hands like she always does. Manon’s laughing loud, unapologetic.

And Sophia.

She’s sitting between Dani and Manon, hair pulled back, expression bright in a way that makes my chest tighten. She laughs at something Manon says, then, like she feels me her eyes flick up.

They meet mine.

It’s brief. Just a second. She smiles.

My stomach drops.

I look away first. Face red.

“I’m gonna—uh,” I say, standing abruptly. “I’ll be back.”

Tommy raises an eyebrow. “You good?”

“Yeah,” I lie. “Just… gotta ask Ava something.”

I walk over before I can overthink it.

“Hey,” I say, sliding in beside Ava. “Can I steal you for a sec?”

Ava looks up, surprised, then nods. “Yeah. What’s up?”

I keep my voice low. “Have you talked to Theo? Like… recently?”

Her smile falters, just a little. “Why?” she asks carefully.

“He’s been ignoring me,” I admit. “No texts. No calls. He barely even looks at me at school.”

Ava exhales through her nose, glancing briefly at Megan, then back at me. “He’s… in a mood.”

“That’s new,” I say dryly.

She gives me a look. “He’s being stupid. And defensive. And taking things out on the wrong people.”

“Is it because of—” I stop myself. “Is it because of me?”

Ava doesn’t answer right away. Which is answer enough. She reaches out, squeezing my hand under the table. “I’m sorry. I’ll talk to him. Okay?”

I nod, forcing a small smile. “Okay.”

As I pull my hand back, I feel it again.

That pull. I glance up and Sophia is watching me.

Not laughing now. Not distracted.

Just watching.

For a moment, the cafeteria noise fades, and it’s just the two of us across the space, connected by something fragile and dangerous.

Then Manon says something loud, Sophia turns away, and the moment breaks.

I step back, heart pounding.

Normal lunch, I tell myself. Just another day. But nothing feels normal anymore.

When I go back, Tommy’s already leaning back in his chair like he’s been waiting to drop something on me.

“So,” he says, grinning, “Jonah’s throwing a Christmas party this weekend.”

I pause. “A party.”

“Yeah,” he says, like it’s obvious. “You should come.”

I blink. “I don’t really—”

“Before you say no,” he cuts in, pointing a fry at me, “it’s not gonna be insane. Okay, it will be a little insane. But it’s Jonah. Big house, good music, way too much food. It’s basically a holiday requirement.”

I sit back down slowly. “I don’t do parties.”

Tommy scoffs. “You survive parties. There’s a difference. Plus, Ava’ll be there. Theo too.”

At Theo’s name, something in my chest tugs uncomfortably.

“And,” Tommy adds, casual but not really, “Sophia’s going.”

That does it.

I roll my eyes, pretending my heart didn’t just trip over itself. “You’re really bad at subtlety.”

He laughs. “I’m not trying to be subtle.”

I hesitate, fingers tracing the edge of my tray. A party means noise. Crowds. Too many people seeing too much.

But it also means… her. And maybe a chance to pretend everything’s fine for one night.

“I’ll think about it,” I say.

Tommy beams like he’s already won. “That’s a yes.”

“It’s literally not,” I mutter.

He stands, slinging his backpack over his shoulder as the bell rings. “Christmas party at Jonah’s. Friday night. I’ll text you the address.”

–--------------

The party came quicker than I expected.

Friday night blurs into existence before I’m ready for it, and suddenly I’m standing in front of Jonah’s house with Christmas lights stapled along the roofline and bass thudding through the walls like a second heartbeat.

I hesitate at the door.

Laughter spills out every time it opens. Someone yells my name, maybe my name, and a wave of warm air, perfume, sweat, and alcohol crashes into me.

I step inside.

Immediately, it’s too much. The house is packed shoulder to shoulder, bodies moving like a single organism. Red and green lights flash from somewhere near the living room. Music pounds through my chest, vibrating my ribs. Someone bumps into me, sloshing a drink dangerously close to my sleeve.

“Sorry!” they shout, already gone.

I stand there, frozen, fingers curling into the straps of my bag like it might anchor me to the floor.

Too loud. Too bright. Too many people.

I try to breathe, but the air feels thick, like it’s been used up already.

Someone laughs too close to my ear. Another body brushes past my back. I flinch, heart racing, suddenly hyper-aware of my own existence in a way I hate.

This was a mistake.

I scan the room, searching for familiar faces, Ava’s hair, Theo’s stupid hoodie, anyone but everyone blurs together in a mess of movement and noise.

The music shifts, heavier now. The crowd roars in approval.

My chest tightens.

I take a step back, then another, pressing myself against the wall near the entryway, trying to shrink. Trying to disappear.

Across the room.

Sophia.

She’s standing near the kitchen, laughing with Dani and Manon, a soft sweater clinging to her frame, hair loose around her shoulders. The lights catch her just right, like the universe is mocking me.

For a second, the noise dulls.

My pulse stutters.

Then someone shoves past me again, and the world crashes back in.

I swallow hard.

God. I really shouldn’t be here.

I try to hang on for a while. I really do.

I drift from room to room like a ghost, nodding when people talk to me, laughing a beat too late at jokes I barely hear. The music keeps getting louder or maybe I’m just getting smaller. Every bass drop feels like it rattles something loose in my chest.

Someone presses a drink into my hand. I hold it for a second, then set it down on the nearest surface and pretend it was never mine.

After ten minutes, maybe fifteen, I can’t do it anymore.

I slip out the back door.

The cold hits me instantly, sharp and clean, slicing through the fog in my head. I suck in a breath like I’ve been underwater too long. The backyard is strung with white Christmas lights, the snow trampled into slush, breath puffing out in little clouds.

I lean against the railing, shoulders sagging. Quiet. Finally,

I close my eyes.

“Hey.”

I open them.

Sophia stands a few steps away, jacket pulled tight around her, hair falling into her face as she tucks it behind her ear. The music is still there, muffled now, a distant thump through the walls.

And somehow, that makes it worse.

"Hey" I say giving her a weak smile.

"What are you doing here?" She asks, head tilting, eyes magnetic as always.

“The sadness will last forever,” I say suddenly. “That’s what Vincent van Gogh wrote. His last words.” I swallow. “I think I agree with him.”

Sophia tilts her head, studying me. Then a small smile tugs at her lips. “You didn’t answer my question there, Rocky,” she teases softly. “But I’ll let it slide. That sounded… interesting.” She pauses. “Do you like last words?”

“It’s a habit, I guess,” I murmur. “Like—‘Money can’t buy life.’” I don’t know why I say it. I just need to. Like the words are knocking and won’t leave me alone.

Her voice stays gentle. “Who said that?”

“Bob Marley.” I tilt my head back, looking up at the stars, scattered and distant, like they don’t belong to us at all.

She’s quiet for a beat. Then, “Do you have a favorite?”

I nod, slow. Careful. “To be continued.”

Her brows pull together. “Who said that?”

“My mom.”

The word hangs between us, fragile.

“I guess the poet comes from her,” Sophia says softly.

The words land gently, not like a compliment, but like understanding.

“Do you want to tell me about her?” Sophia asks softly. “She seems… deep. And caring.”

I stare ahead, at nothing in particular. “She was.” My throat tightens. “I remember her buying me all the books I love to this day. She was a woman with taste. She always told me you can smile through anything. And I really believed it.”

I swallow.

“Until she didn’t.”

“She sounds like someone who left you… a lot,” Sophia adds carefully. “Even if she couldn’t stay.”

I nod, staring at the frost-dusted grass. “Sometimes I feel like everything I write is just me trying to finish her sentence.”

"Thats beautiful" Sophia’s voice drops to a whisper. She bites her lips hesitating to say something then it opens “I won’t tell anyone.”

“Thanks.” The word feels too small for what it means.

I don’t know what gets into me, maybe the quiet, maybe the way she hasn’t looked away once, but I feel myself lean toward her, slow and uncertain, giving her every chance to pull back.

She doesn’t.

Instead, she leans in too.

My head comes to rest against her shoulder, tentative at first, then settling. Her jacket is warm. Solid. Real. Her perfume is soft and familiar, something clean and sweet, like laundry and late nights and safety all mixed together.

I close my eyes. 

We stay like that for a while. Long enough for my breathing to even out. Long enough for the world to feel distant, manageable.

Then, A shout cuts through the quiet. It’s sharp. Angry. Too loud to be part of the music.

Sophia stiffens beside me. We both pull back at the same time, turning toward the house.

Through the window, bodies shove past each other. Someone knocks into a table. A voice rises, Theo’s, unmistakable. Another answers, louder, tighter.

Tommy.

“Oh shit,” I breathe.

We move at the same time, bolting back inside. The living room is chaos. People have backed away, forming a loose, shocked circle. Red cups litter the floor. Theo and Tommy are squared off, faces flushed, words slurring into something dangerous.

“What’s your problem?” Tommy shouts.

“You,” Theo snaps back. “It’s always you. And you know why.”

“Guys—stop,” Sophia says, pushing through the crowd.

I don’t think. I just act. I step between them, hands up. “Hey. this is stupid. Both of you, step the fuck back”

Tommy turns too fast. There’s a flash of movement. A sharp crack. Pain explodes across my face.

I stumble back, stars bursting behind my eyes as I hit the couch hard. The room goes silent in an instant.

“Oh my god,” someone whispers.

Tommy freezes, horror flooding his expression. “I— I didn’t mean—”

Sophia is at his side immediately, grabbing his arm. “Tommy. Come with me. Now.”

She shoots me one look, apology, worry, something unspoken before pulling him away toward the hallway.

Theo just stands there, breathing hard, knuckles clenched, eyes locked on the spot where Tommy stood.

I push myself up, jaw throbbing. “Come on,” I mutter, grabbing Theo’s sleeve. “Outside.”

He doesn’t resist. I drag him through the back door and into the cold again, the door slamming shut behind us.

The party noise dulls.

I drag him across the yard, my grip tight on his sleeve, until we’re far enough from the door that the music fades into a low, distant hum.

“Hey,” I snap, spinning on him. “What the hell was that?”

Theo yanks his arm free, pacing a few steps before turning back on me. His chest rises and falls hard, eyes glassy, jaw locked like he’s holding something ugly between his teeth.

“What’s wrong?” I press softer now. “Talk to me.”

He lets out a short, brittle laugh. No humor in it. “You would never get it, cause everything is perfect in Y/N's world, nothing bothers her, right?”

My cheek throbs, but I ignore it. “Then make me get it. Let me understand, Theo. I can live with you ignoring me—but I draw the line at you fighting.”

“Just shut up, Y/N,” he spits, cold and sharp “You don’t get it. So just leave it”

My voice rises despite myself. “Is this because of me? Because I set them up? Is that it, cause I don't need you fighting my battles Theo, its bullsh—?”

“I was fucking him, okay” he shouts, cutting me off. The sound echoes in the empty yard. He drags a hand through his hair, breath hitching, the fight draining out of him all at once.

Then, quieter. Broken. “I’m in love with him.”

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ʏ/ɴ ʏ/ʟ/ɴ - ʜᴏᴘᴇʟᴇꜱꜱ ʀᴏᴍᴀɴᴛɪᴄ ɴᴇʀᴅ (ᴊʀ)

ᴀ ᴅʀᴇᴀᴍʏ, ʜᴏᴘᴇʟᴇꜱꜱ-ʀᴏᴍᴀɴᴛɪᴄ ᴇɴɢʟɪꜱʜ ɴᴇʀᴅ ᴡʜᴏ ꜱᴘʟɪᴛꜱ ʜᴇʀ ᴛɪᴍᴇ ʙᴇᴛᴡᴇᴇɴ ꜱᴛᴜᴅʏɪɴɢ ᴀɴᴅ ꜱʜʀᴇᴅᴅɪɴɢ ᴏɴ ʜᴇʀ ʙᴀꜱꜱ. ᴜꜱᴜᴀʟʟʏ ꜱᴛᴀʏꜱ ᴏᴜᴛ ᴏꜰ ᴛʀᴏᴜʙʟᴇ, ᴍᴏꜱᴛʟʏ ʙᴜᴛ ʜᴇʀ ᴜɴᴅᴇʀ-ᴛʜᴇ-ᴛᴀʙʟᴇ ꜱɪᴅᴇ ʜᴜꜱᴛʟᴇ ᴏꜰ ɢɪᴠɪɴɢ ᴛᴇꜱᴛ ᴀɴꜱᴡᴇʀꜱ ᴛᴇɴᴅꜱ ᴛᴏ ᴘᴜʟʟ ʜᴇʀ ʀɪɢʜᴛ ʙᴀᴄᴋ ɪɴ.

ᴛᴏᴍᴍʏ ʜᴀʟᴇ - ᴍʀ 'ᴘᴇʀꜰᴇᴄᴛ' (ꜱʀ)

ᴛʜᴇ ᴄʜᴀʀᴍɪɴɢ ᴄᴀᴘᴛᴀɪɴ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴏᴄᴄᴇʀ ᴛᴇᴀᴍ ᴡʜᴏ’ꜱ ᴘᴏᴘᴜʟᴀʀ ʙᴜᴛ ɢᴇɴᴜɪɴᴇʟʏ ᴋɪɴᴅ, ꜰᴜɴ, ᴇxᴛʀᴏᴠᴇʀᴛᴇᴅ, ᴀɴᴅ ʀᴇʟɪᴇꜱ ᴏɴ ʏᴏᴜ ꜰᴏʀ ʜᴇʟᴘ ᴡɪᴛʜ ꜱᴄʜᴏᴏʟᴡᴏʀᴋ. ʜᴇ'ꜱ ʙᴀꜱɪᴄᴀʟʟʏ ᴘᴇʀꜰᴇᴄᴛ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴛʜᴇ ᴡʜᴏʟᴇ ꜱᴄʜᴏᴏʟ ᴏʙꜱᴇꜱꜱᴇᴅ ᴡɪᴛʜ ʜɪᴍ.

ʏ/ɴ'ꜱ ᴄʀᴇᴡ

ᴛʜᴇᴏ ʟᴇᴇ ɢᴀʀᴄɪᴀ - ᴅᴏᴘᴇʜᴇᴀᴅ ɢᴇɴɪᴜꜱ (ᴊʀ)

ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴄʜɪʟᴅʜᴏᴏᴅ ꜰʀɪᴇɴᴅ ᴀɴᴅ ʀᴇꜱɪᴅᴇɴᴛ ᴘᴀʀᴛʏ ꜱᴛᴏɴᴇʀ, ᴀʟᴡᴀʏꜱ ꜱᴜᴘᴘʟʏɪɴɢ ᴛʜᴇ ʙᴇᴇʀ ᴀɴᴅ ᴋᴇᴇᴘɪɴɢ ᴛʜɪɴɢꜱ ᴇꜰꜰᴏʀᴛʟᴇꜱꜱʟʏ ᴄʜɪʟʟ. ʜᴇ'ꜱ ᴄᴀʀᴇꜰʀᴇᴇ, ɴᴏɴᴄʜᴀʟᴀɴᴛ ᴇxᴛᴇʀɪᴏʀ ʟɪᴇꜱ ᴀ ꜰɪᴇʀᴄᴇʟʏ ʟᴏʏᴀʟ, ɪɴᴅᴇᴘᴇɴᴅᴇɴᴛ, ᴀɴᴅ ᴘʀɪɴᴄɪᴘʟᴇᴅ ɢᴜʏ ᴡʜᴏ’ꜱ ᴅᴇᴇᴘʟʏ ᴘʀᴏᴛᴇᴄᴛɪᴠᴇ ᴏꜰ ʜɪꜱ ꜰʀɪᴇɴᴅꜱ. ʏᴏᴜ ᴛᴡᴏ ᴀʀᴇ ɪɴꜱᴇᴘᴀʀᴀʙʟᴇ ʟᴏꜱᴇʀꜱ ɪɴ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴏᴡɴ ʀɪɢʜᴛ, ʙᴏɴᴅɪɴɢ ᴏᴠᴇʀ ᴍᴜꜱɪᴄ, ʜᴇʟᴘɪɴɢ ᴇᴀᴄʜ ᴏᴛʜᴇʀ ᴛʜʀᴏᴜɢʜ ʟɪꜰᴇ, ᴀɴᴅ ᴄʟᴇᴀɴɪɴɢ ᴜᴘ ᴛʜᴇ ᴍᴇꜱꜱᴇꜱ ᴡʜᴇɴ ʜᴇ’ꜱ ʜɪɢʜ ᴏʀ ᴅʀᴜɴᴋ.

ᴀᴠᴀ ʟᴇᴇ ɢᴀʀᴄɪᴀ - ʟᴀᴢʏ ᴘʀᴏᴅɪɢʏ (ꜱʀ)

ᴀᴠᴀ, ᴛʜᴇᴏ’ꜱ ᴛᴡɪɴ ꜱɪꜱᴛᴇʀ, ᴇxᴜᴅᴇꜱ ᴇꜰꜰᴏʀᴛʟᴇꜱꜱ ᴀʟᴛ ᴠɪʙᴇꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ɴᴏɴᴄʜᴀʟᴀɴᴛ ᴄᴏᴏʟɴᴇꜱꜱ, ᴍᴀᴋɪɴɢ ʜᴇʀ ꜰᴇᴇʟ ᴀ ᴡᴏʀʟᴅ ᴀᴘᴀʀᴛ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ᴛʜᴇ ʀᴇꜱᴛ ᴏꜰ ʏᴏᴜ. ꜱʜᴇ ʜᴀꜱ ᴀɴ “ᴀɢᴀɪɴꜱᴛ-ᴛʜᴇ-ꜱʏꜱᴛᴇᴍ” ᴇxᴛᴇʀɪᴏʀ, ꜱʜᴇ’ꜱ ꜰɪᴇʀᴄᴇʟʏ ʟᴏʏᴀʟ, ᴡɪꜱᴇ, ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴏᴜʀᴄᴇ ᴏꜰ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴍᴜꜱɪᴄ ᴛᴀꜱᴛᴇ, ꜱʜᴇ ᴇᴠᴇɴ ɢᴏᴛ ʏᴏᴜ ɪɴᴛᴏ ᴘʟᴀʏɪɴɢ ʙᴀꜱꜱ. ʏᴏᴜ ᴛᴡᴏ ɢʀᴇᴡ ᴜᴘ ᴛᴏɢᴇᴛʜᴇʀ, ʀɪᴅᴇ-ᴏʀ-ᴅɪᴇ ᴘᴀʀᴛɴᴇʀꜱ ɪɴ ᴄʀɪᴍᴇ, ᴀʟᴡᴀʏꜱ ᴄʜɪʟʟɪɴɢ ᴡʜᴇɴ ᴛʜᴇ ʙᴏʏꜱ ᴅᴏ ꜱᴏᴍᴇᴛʜɪɴɢ ᴅᴜᴍʙ, ᴀɴᴅ ꜱᴇᴄʀᴇᴛʟʏ ᴀ ʟᴀᴢʏ ᴘʀᴏᴅɪɢʏ ᴡʜᴏ ᴄᴏᴜʟᴅ ᴀᴄᴄᴏᴍᴘʟɪꜱʜ ᴀɴʏᴛʜɪɴɢ ɪꜰ ꜱʜᴇ ʀᴇᴀʟʟʏ ᴛʀɪᴇᴅ.

ꜱᴏᴘʜɪᴀ'ꜱ ᴄʀᴇᴡ

ꜱᴏᴘʜɪᴀ ʟᴀꜰᴏʀᴛᴇᴢᴀ - ʙʀᴏᴀᴅᴡᴀʏ ᴘʀɪɴᴄᴇꜱꜱ (ꜱʀ)

ꜱᴍᴀʀᴛ, ᴋɪɴᴅ, ᴀɴᴅ ꜱᴜᴘᴇʀ ʟᴇᴠᴇʟ-ʜᴇᴀᴅᴇᴅ, ᴀʟᴡᴀʏꜱ ʜᴇʟᴘɪɴɢ ᴏᴛʜᴇʀꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ᴋɪʟʟɪɴɢ ɪᴛ ɪɴ ᴍᴜꜱɪᴄᴀʟ ᴛʜᴇᴀᴛᴇʀ. ꜱʜᴇ’ꜱ ᴘᴀʀᴛ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇ ᴘᴏᴘᴜʟᴀʀ ᴋᴀᴛꜱᴇʏᴇ ɢɪʀʟꜱ, ʙᴜᴛ ᴅᴏᴇꜱɴ’ᴛ ʟᴇᴛ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴅᴇꜰɪɴᴇ ʜᴇʀ, ᴀɴᴅ ꜱʜᴇ’ꜱ ʜᴀᴅ ʜᴇʀ ꜱʜᴀʀᴇ ᴏꜰ ʙᴀᴅ ʙᴏʏꜰʀɪᴇɴᴅꜱ. ꜱʜᴇ’ꜱ ʜᴀᴅ ᴀ Qᴜɪᴇᴛ ᴄʀᴜꜱʜ ᴏɴ ʏᴏᴜ ꜱɪɴᴄᴇ ᴘʀɪᴍᴀʀʏ ꜱᴄʜᴏᴏʟ, ꜱᴛɪʟʟ ɢᴇᴛꜱ ꜰʟᴜꜱᴛᴇʀᴇᴅ ᴡʜᴇɴ ꜱʜᴇ ꜱᴇᴇꜱ ʏᴏᴜ, ᴀɴᴅ ᴀᴄᴛᴜᴀʟʟʏ ꜰɪɴᴅꜱ ʏᴏᴜʀ ʟɪᴛᴛʟᴇ ᴛᴇꜱᴛ-ᴀɴꜱᴡᴇʀ ʜᴜꜱᴛʟᴇ ᴋɪɴᴅ ᴏꜰ ꜰᴜɴɴʏ.

ᴍᴀɴᴏɴ ʙᴀɴɴᴇʀᴍᴀɴ - ᴛʜᴇ ɴᴇxᴛ ʙᴇʏᴏɴᴄᴇ (ꜱʀ)

ᴇꜰꜰᴏʀᴛʟᴇꜱꜱʟʏ ɢᴏʀɢᴇᴏᴜꜱ, ᴊᴜɢɢʟɪɴɢ ᴍᴏᴅᴇʟɪɴɢ ɢɪɢꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ᴀᴄᴛɪɴɢ ᴄʟᴀꜱꜱᴇꜱ, ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴀ ꜰᴜᴛᴜʀᴇ ɪɴ ʙᴏᴛʜ ʙᴜᴛ ɴᴇᴠᴇʀ ᴛᴀᴋɪɴɢ ᴀɴʏᴛʜɪɴɢ ᴛᴏᴏ ꜱᴇʀɪᴏᴜꜱʟʏ. ꜱʜᴇ ᴛʜɪɴᴋꜱ ʏᴏᴜ'ʀᴇ ꜰɪɴᴇ ᴀɴᴅ ʟᴏᴡᴋᴇʏ ʜᴏᴘᴇꜱ ꜱᴏᴘʜɪᴀ ᴅᴀᴛᴇꜱ ʜɪᴍ ꜱᴏ ꜱʜᴇ ᴄᴀɴ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ᴛᴏ ʜᴇʀꜱᴇʟꜰ. ꜱʜᴇ ᴋɴᴏᴡꜱ ᴛᴏᴍᴍʏ ʙᴇᴄᴀᴜꜱᴇ ᴛʜᴇʏ ꜱᴜꜰꜰᴇʀ ɪɴ ᴀᴘ ʜɪꜱᴛᴏʀʏ ᴛᴏɢᴇᴛʜᴇʀ ᴀɴᴅ ʜᴏɴᴇꜱᴛʟʏ ᴛʜɪɴᴋꜱ ʜᴇ’ꜱ ᴄʜɪʟʟ. ʙᴇʏᴏɴᴅ ʜᴇʀ ʟᴏᴏᴋꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ᴄʜᴀʀᴍ, ꜱʜᴇ’ꜱ ᴘʟᴀʏꜰᴜʟ, ᴄᴏɴꜰɪᴅᴇɴᴛ, ᴀɴᴅ ɪᴍᴘᴏꜱꜱɪʙʟᴇ ɴᴏᴛ ᴛᴏ ɴᴏᴛɪᴄᴇ.

ᴅᴀɴɪᴇʟᴀ ᴀᴠᴀɴᴢɪɴɪ - ʟᴀᴛɪɴᴀ ᴍᴀᴍɪ ꜰᴜᴇɢᴏ (ꜱʀ)

ᴛʜᴇ ꜰᴜɴɴʏ, ᴄᴏɴꜰɪᴅᴇɴᴛ ᴄʜᴇᴇʀ ᴄᴀᴘᴛᴀɪɴ ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴄʜᴏᴏʟ’ꜱ ᴘᴏᴡᴇʀ ᴄᴏᴜᴘʟᴇ ᴡɪᴛʜ ʙᴀꜱᴋᴇᴛʙᴀʟʟ ᴄᴀᴘᴛᴀɪɴ ᴊᴏɴᴀʜ. ꜱʜᴇ ᴛʜɪɴᴋꜱ ᴛᴏᴍᴍʏ ɪꜱ ᴀ ɢᴏᴏᴅ ɢᴜʏ ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ꜱᴏᴘʜɪᴀ ꜱʜᴏᴜʟᴅ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ɢɪᴠᴇ ʜɪᴍ ᴀ ᴄʜᴀɴᴄᴇ. ᴀʟᴡᴀʏꜱ ᴊᴏᴋɪɴɢ ᴀʀᴏᴜɴᴅ, ꜱʜᴇ ꜰʟɪʀᴛꜱ ᴡɪᴛʜ ꜱᴏᴘʜɪᴀ ꜱᴏ ᴍᴜᴄʜ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴘᴇᴏᴘʟᴇ ᴀᴄᴛᴜᴀʟʟʏ ᴛʜᴏᴜɢʜᴛ ᴛʜᴇʏ ᴡᴇʀᴇ ᴅᴀᴛɪɴɢ.

ʟᴀʀᴀ ʀᴀᴊ - ᴠᴏᴄᴀʟ ᴘᴏᴡᴇʀʜᴏᴜꜱᴇ (ꜱʀ)

ᴛʜᴇ ᴋɪɴᴅ ᴏꜰ ɢɪʀʟ ᴇᴠᴇʀʏᴏɴᴇ ɴᴏᴛɪᴄᴇꜱ ᴡɪᴛʜᴏᴜᴛ ʜᴇʀ ᴇᴠᴇʀ ᴛʀʏɪɴɢ, ꜱʜᴀʀᴘ-ᴡɪᴛᴛᴇᴅ, ᴇꜰꜰᴏʀᴛʟᴇꜱꜱʟʏ ᴘʀᴇᴛᴛʏ, ᴀɴᴅ ᴛᴇʀʀɪꜰʏɪɴɢʟʏ ʜᴏɴᴇꜱᴛ ɪɴ ᴀ ᴡᴀʏ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ꜰᴇᴇʟꜱ ʙᴏᴛʜ ʀᴇꜰʀᴇꜱʜɪɴɢ ᴀɴᴅ ʙʀᴜᴛᴀʟ. ꜱʜᴇ ꜱɪɴɢꜱ ɪɴ ʜᴇʀ ʀᴏᴏᴍ, ᴄᴏɴꜱᴛᴀɴᴛʟʏ ᴍᴀᴋɪɴɢ ɴᴇᴡ ʙᴇᴀᴛꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ᴘᴏꜱᴛɪɴɢ ᴄᴏᴠᴇʀꜱ ᴏɴʟɪɴᴇ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ʙʟᴏᴡ ᴜᴘ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ᴇɴᴏᴜɢʜ ꜰᴏʀ ᴘᴇᴏᴘʟᴇ ᴛᴏ ᴡʜɪꜱᴘᴇʀ ꜱʜᴇ’ꜱ “ɢᴏɪɴɢ ꜱᴏᴍᴇᴡʜᴇʀᴇ.”

ᴍᴇɢᴀɴ ꜱᴋɪᴇɴᴅɪᴇʟ - ᴡᴇɪʀᴅ ɢɪʀʟ ᴛʀᴀᴘᴘᴇᴅ ɪɴ ᴀ ʜᴏᴛ ʙᴏᴅʏ (ᴊʀ)

ᴇʟɪᴛᴇ ᴅᴀɴᴄᴇʀ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴀ ᴛᴏᴛᴀʟʟʏ ᴏᴜᴛ-ᴏꜰ-ᴘᴏᴄᴋᴇᴛ ꜱᴇɴꜱᴇ ᴏꜰ ʜᴜᴍᴏʀ ᴀɴᴅ ᴀ ʟᴏᴠᴀʙʟᴇ, ᴘᴜᴘᴘʏ-ʟɪᴋᴇ ᴇɴᴇʀɢʏ. ꜱʜᴇ ʜᴀꜱ ᴀᴘ ᴇɴɢʟɪꜱʜ ʟᴀɴɢᴜᴀɢᴇ ᴀɴᴅ ᴄᴏᴍᴘᴏꜱɪᴛɪᴏɴ ᴡɪᴛʜ ʏᴏᴜ ᴀɴᴅ ᴏꜰᴛᴇɴ ᴀꜱᴋꜱ ꜰᴏʀ ʏᴏᴜʀ ʜᴇʟᴘ, ʟᴏᴡᴋᴇʏ ɢɪᴠɪɴɢ ᴏꜰꜰ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴀᴍᴇ “ʟᴏꜱᴇʀ-ᴄᴏʀᴇ” ᴠɪʙᴇꜱ ᴀꜱ ʏᴏᴜ. ꜱʜᴇ ʟɪᴋᴇꜱ ʏᴏᴜ ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʜɪɴᴋꜱ ʏᴏᴜ’ᴅ ʙᴇ ᴘᴇʀꜰᴇᴄᴛ ꜰᴏʀ ꜱᴏᴘʜɪᴀ, ᴀʟʟ ᴡʜɪʟᴇ ʙᴇɪɴɢ ᴡᴏɴᴅᴇʀꜰᴜʟʟʏ ᴡᴇɪʀᴅ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ʙᴇꜱᴛ ᴡᴀʏ.

ʏᴏᴏɴᴄʜᴀᴇ ᴊᴇᴜɴɢ - ᴀʜᴇᴀᴅ-ᴏꜰ-ᴛʜᴇɪʀ-ᴀɢᴇ ᴋɪᴅ (ᴊʀ)

ʏᴏᴜɴɢᴇʀ, ꜱᴜᴘᴇʀ ꜱᴍᴀʀᴛ ᴍᴜꜱɪᴄ ᴛʀᴀɪɴᴇᴇ ᴡʜᴏ’ꜱ ᴡᴀʏ ᴀʜᴇᴀᴅ ᴏꜰ ʜᴇʀ ɢʀᴀᴅᴇ ᴀɴᴅ ᴀɢᴇ, ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴀ ꜰᴜɴɴʏ ᴀɴᴅ ꜱᴀꜱꜱʏ ᴘᴇʀꜱᴏɴᴀʟɪᴛʏ. ꜱʜᴇ ᴀʟᴡᴀʏꜱ ʟɪꜱᴛᴇɴꜱ ᴛᴏ ꜱᴏᴘʜɪᴀ ɢᴜꜱʜ ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ ʏᴏᴜ ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʜɪɴᴋꜱ ꜱᴏᴘʜɪᴀ ꜱʜᴏᴜʟᴅɴ'ᴛ ᴅᴀᴛᴇ ꜱᴏᴍᴇᴏɴᴇ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ʙᴇᴄᴀᴜꜱᴇ ꜱʜᴇ ʜᴀꜱɴ’ᴛ ɪɴ ᴀ ᴡʜɪʟᴇ. ꜱʜᴇ ᴅɪᴅɴ’ᴛ ʟɪᴋᴇ ʟᴜᴄᴀꜱ (ꜱᴏᴘʜɪᴀ ᴇx) ᴀᴛ ᴀʟʟ ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʜɪɴᴋꜱ ᴛᴏᴍᴍʏ ᴍɪɢʜᴛ ʙᴇ ʙᴇᴛᴛᴇʀ ʟᴏᴏᴋɪɴɢ, ᴛʜᴏᴜɢʜ ꜱʜᴇ ᴋɴᴏᴡꜱ ʜᴇᴀʀᴛ-ᴡɪꜱᴇ ᴛʜᴇʏ’ʀᴇ ɴᴏ ᴅɪꜰꜰᴇʀᴇɴᴛ, ᴀɴᴅ ꜱʜᴇ ᴄᴀɴ ʙᴇ ᴀ ʟɪᴛᴛʟᴇ ʀᴇꜱᴇʀᴠᴇᴅ ᴡʜᴇɴ ʏᴏᴜ ꜰɪʀꜱᴛ ᴍᴇᴇᴛ ʜᴇʀ.

🏷️

-Flashback 6 months ago-

The hotel room was too quiet for two people who used to laugh until sunrise. Only the hum of Los Angeles through the glass filled the silence, cars, cameras, the endless murmur of a world that never stopped watching.

Jenna stood by the balcony, her back to you, the glow of city lights tracing the outline of her shoulders.

Her engagement ring — the ring she thought you’d want — sat untouched on the marble table between you. It glimmered cold and sharp in the dim light, like a question neither of you wanted to ask.

“You don’t get it,” she said finally, voice tight. “I’m not asking you to throw your life away. I’m asking you to share it with me.”

You exhaled, slow, heavy. “You’re asking me to live in front of the world, Jen. That’s not sharing, that’s performing.”

She turned then, eyes wet, fierce. “Performing? That’s what you think this is? You think loving you is an act for the cameras?”

“It feels like it” you shot back before you could stop yourself. “Every red carpet, every headline, every time we breathe, they’re waiting for a story. I’m just tired of being the story.”

Jenna’s expression cracked, but her anger held. “You can’t hide forever, Y/N. You’re the one who writes songs about truth, about being brave, about feeling. But the moment it’s real, you run.”

You looked away. The truth was a weight pressing against your ribs, the same truth you could never quite say out loud. “I’m not running from you,” you murmured, voice breaking. “I’m running from this. The cameras, the noise, the people who think they own every piece of us.”

Her lip trembled. “So what, you’d rather lose me than live a little louder?”

Silence.

Your eyes met hers, and for a moment the room stopped spinning. All the noise, the fame, the flashes gone. Just two people standing in the ruins of something beautiful.

“I can love you,” you said quietly, the words trembling like glass. “But I can still not want that life.”

Jenna’s breath hitched, eyes shining with something that wasn’t anger anymore just heartbreak. The kind that settles deep and lingers.

She didn’t speak. She just nodded once, slowly, and walked toward the door.

“Wait, Jen,” you said, the words catching somewhere between desperation and exhaustion. “Just because I don’t want to marry you doesn’t mean I don’t love you. I’m just… not ready.”

Her hand froze on the doorknob. “Then when?” she whispered. “When are you ready?”

You swallowed hard. “I don’t know. But just don’t leave. We can still work through this.”

Jenna turned, eyes glistening, her voice trembling not from weakness, but from everything she had been holding in. “I want a day where you can say you want to love me openly. A day where I don’t have to hesitate to even look at you in public. A day where I can kiss you without checking if someone’s watching.” She took a shaky breath. “Not soft launches. Not hiding behind metaphors in songs. I want to show you off.”

You stared at her, the woman you swore you’d write your forever with and felt the truth clawing its way out of you. “Jen” you said softly, “I don't think I want that life. I want to love you without people's judgement.”

“The whole world knows that we’re dating, so who cares?” you said, voice sharper than you meant it to be.

Jenna turned, her expression unreadable, the faint reflection of city lights flickering in her eyes.

“I care,” she whispered.

The silence that followed wasn’t loud; it was empty. The kind of silence that eats sound, that swallows everything left between two people.

Jenna blinked, once, twice, then nodded the motion small, but final. “If you really care about what people think, if that all you can think about. I can’t do this then.”

She didn’t cry this time. She didn’t beg. She just opened the door and walked out.

You didn’t chase her. You couldn’t.

Because every part of you knew, if you did, you’d be running toward a life you didn’t want, just to keep a love you couldn’t live with.

When the door shut, the sound echoed like applause after a tragedy, hollow, inevitable, final.

You stood there, heart hammering, the faint smell of her perfume still lingering in the air. The ring on the table glinted beneath the city lights, a promise too heavy for either of you to hold.

Outside, cameras flashed somewhere far below. Inside, the only thing shining was everything you just lost and the realization that loving someone wasn’t always enough to stay.

The door had closed, but the world didn’t.

By a week, it was everywhere.

“Hollywoods Biggest Power Couple Breaks Apart.” “Jenna Ortega Heartbroken After Secret Split.” “Sources Say Y/N Fell Out of Love.”

You didn’t even have to scroll, your phone lit up with notifications faster than you could breathe. Headlines, tweets, think pieces. Everyone had an opinion, and every one of them hurt.

They called you selfish. They called you cold. They called you the girl who broke America’s sweetheart.

And Jenna? She didn’t say a word. She didn’t have to. A single photo, her in oversized sunglasses, walking through LAX with red eyes was enough to crown her the victim.

The public wrote the story for you. You were the villain, the ungrateful one, the artist who loved too little and left too soon.

Then came the rumors. Whispers turned to posts. Posts turned to headlines. Suddenly, you weren’t just the heartbreaker, you were the cheater, the liar, the one who “moved on too fast.”

Someone leaked an old photo of you at an afterparty, a hand on your shoulder, a drink in your hand, laughter frozen mid-frame and the internet decided that was all the proof they needed.

“Y/N caught flirting weeks before breakup!” “Was Jenna betrayed?” “America’s golden girl turns out to be made of rust.”

Your label called within hours. Damage control. They told you to stay quiet, stay low, stay clean.

So you disappeared. No more interviews. No more red carpets. No more music, at least for a while.

You learned how to hide. Behind tinted windows, hotel lobbies, blackout curtains. You learned how to let silence be your armor, even when it was the thing that ruined you in the first place.

The world kept spinning without you. Jenna won awards, smiled on talk shows, posted pictures with her friends. Every time her name trended, yours followed, a shadow, a footnote, a warning.

Weeks passed. Then months. Your songs stopped charting. The press stopped calling. But the comments never stopped.

“She deserves it.” “Jenna dodged a bullet.” “Y/N’s career is over.” "Imagine writing this and still cheating"

You didn’t smoke before Jenna.

You started after. The habit wasn’t about addiction it was about silence. The kind that fills your chest when the world won’t let you explain yourself.

And so you let them talk. You let them hate. You let the image of you burn, piece by piece, until there was nothing left to ruin.

You told yourself it was fine. You told yourself you didn’t care. But every song you tried to write came out sounding like her name. Every melody you thought of broke your heart.

You hated this damn guitar.

-Flashback over-

6 months later, your name still tasted like smoke.

Not the kind that burned, the kind that lingered, ghost-thin and stubborn, no matter how many windows you opened.

You’d learned how to exist quietly. Studio, apartment, studio again. A loop of empty rooms and half-finished songs. The headlines had faded, but the echo of them still clung to you whenever you looked in a mirror.

No one wanted to hear from you. Not until now.

The knock on the apartment door came right after midnight. Your manager poked her head in, red lipstick perfect as always, phone already in her hand. “You’re trending again,” she said.

You didn’t look up from the notepad on your lap. “For what? Breathing?”

She ignored the jab. “For nothing, actually. Which means it’s the perfect time to change that.”

You sighed, closing your notebook. “If this is another damage-control idea, save it. I’m done playing nice for cameras.”

“Not nice,” she said, walking closer. “Smart.”

She laid a folder on the piano, glossy printouts, press charts, analytics, a familiar kind of suffocation. “KATSEYE just dropped their album. A member — Megan’s, her solo project is killing it. The label wants a collaboration to cross audiences.”

You blinked, unimpressed. “You want me to feature on a song?”

“More than that.” She smiled like someone about to sell her soul. “We want you to date her.”

The words hit harder than expected. You leaned back, staring. “Date her.”

“Fake date. Public. Mutual PR. You both win, her group gets the international buzz; you get your redemption arc. It’s clean, it’s controllable, it’s—”

“Insane,” you cut in. “You think the world will just forget everything because I’m holding someone else’s hand?”

“That’s exactly what they’ll do,” she said simply. “Because people don’t want apologies. They want distractions.”

Silence stretched. The same kind of silence that once ended everything. You stared at the folder, Megan’s face staring back from the cover, smiling, bright, everything you weren’t anymore.

“I don’t even know her,” you muttered.

“Then get to know her,” your manager said, already heading for the door. “We will cause a 'leak' tomorrow . But get to know each other, go on a date, work in the studio together, and the paparazzi will take care of the rest.”

The door clicked shut behind her.

You sat there for a long time, staring at the word collaboration like it was a threat. 6 months of hiding, and the world wanted you back but not as yourself.

Somewhere deep down, under the exhaustion and the bitterness, a line from one of your old songs whispered back to you: “If they want a story, give them something worth writing about.”

You reached for your phone, scrolling to Megan’s name. The label had already sent her number. You hovered over it for a moment, thumb hesitating.

Then you pressed call.

A click. A quiet breath on the other end.

“Hey,” you said, voice low, almost amused. “Looks like we’re about to make headlines.”

There was a beat of silence on the other end then a voice, smooth and unimpressed. “I’m sorry, who is this?”

You blinked. “Oh. My bad.” You leaned back in your chair, smirking a little at the tone. “Y/N Y/L/N. You might’ve heard, apparently I’m dating you now.”

Another pause. Then a quiet, flat laugh. “Right. That’s how I find out? From the source of my new PR nightmare?”

You frowned. “Well, technically, it’s a PR dream. For you, anyway.”

“For me?” Her tone sharpened, cool and detached. “You really think your mess of a reputation is good press for me?”

You let out a dry laugh. “You say that like I begged for this.”

“Didn’t you?” she countered. “I mean, it fits the comeback narrative. Tragic breakup, fake love, public redemption. Classic industry rinse cycle.”

You rolled your eyes even though she couldn’t see it. “You sound like you’ve done this before.”

“I haven’t,” she said simply. “That’s kind of my thing. I don’t fake anything.”

The words hit harder than they should’ve precise, honest, a subtle jab wrapped in moral superiority. You bit the inside of your cheek, forcing a light tone. “Then lucky you. Guess I’m your first.”

She made a small, disbelieving noise, a quiet exhale that sounded almost like a scoff. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

There it was, the spark. Not attraction, not yet, but friction. The kind that burns if you get too close.

“Tomorrow,” she said after a beat. “Studio, ten a.m. I’ll do my job, smile for the camera, and play nice. Just don’t expect me to pretend off the clock.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” you said.

“Good.”

The line went dead.

You stared at your phone, her voice still echoing in your head, sharp, unbothered, ice with a pulse.

For the first time in months, something inside you stirred, not hope, not excitement, just the faintest edge of curiosity.

Megan was supposed to save your image. But judging by that call, she might just ruin your peace first.

The call ended with a click, and for the first time in a long while, the silence didn’t feel lonely, just heavy.

You tossed your phone onto the couch, leaned back, and stared at the ceiling for a few seconds. The city hummed outside low, restless, alive in a way you weren’t.

The TV was still on, the kind of late-night background noise you kept around to feel less alone. You weren’t even paying attention until the logo flashed:

SNL — Live from New York.

You froze.

Jenna Ortega stepped out onto the stage, dazzling under the lights. She looked effortless, hair soft and perfect, makeup glowing in all the ways you used to tease her about.

You used to say she didn’t need it, that her bare face was your favorite. She used to roll her eyes, call you “corny,” then wear that same gloss the next day anyway.

You remembered how you once joked that you’d both end up on that stage together, she’d host, you’d be the musical guest. It was supposed to be your moment. Yours.

Now, she was there. Standing next to Matt Healy and the 1975. And she was killing it.

The audience loved it. Loved her. Her laugh, that laugh filled the room, too bright for how small your apartment suddenly felt.

You told yourself it didn’t matter. You told yourself you were happy for her. You told yourself you’d moved on.

But the way your chest tightened said otherwise.

You grabbed the remote, flicked off the TV, and sat in the dark for a while letting the silence hum louder than her voice ever could.

When the ache got too much, you stood up, slid open the balcony door, and stepped into the cold air. The city lights stretched beneath you, endless and indifferent.

You fished a cigarette from the pack sitting on the railing, the one you swore you’d thrown away months ago and lit it. The flame flickered once, twice, before catching.

The smoke burned your lungs in the way pain sometimes feels like control. You leaned on the railing, watching the ember glow at the tip.

“It’s all right,” you muttered to yourself, exhaling slow. “It’s fine.”

It wasn’t. But it was easier to lie to yourself than admit you’d started missing someone who wasn’t coming back.

You took another drag, letting the night swallow your thoughts whole.

Tomorrow, you’d meet Megan. Tomorrow, you’d smile for the cameras again.

But tonight.

Tonight, it was just you, the city, and a habit you promised to quit for a girl who wasn’t yours anymore.

The next morning came faster than you wanted. You hadn’t slept much, just drifted in and out of shallow dreams where applause and camera flashes blurred into the same blinding white.

The label’s car pulled up to the studio, and the second you stepped inside, it was all lights, coffee cups, and quiet chaos. Technicians adjusting cameras stylists hovering, assistants whispering about “chemistry” and “photo angles.” Trying to make it natural as possible.

And then there she was.

Megan.

Headphones around her neck, scrolling through lyrics on her phone. In person, she looked exactly like her photos, sharp, clean, magnetic but colder. Like she knew the world watched her, and she had decided not to give it anything real.

You cleared your throat. “Hey.”

She looked up, expression unreadable. “You’re early.”

“Sorry,” you said, half-smiling. “I thought fake relationships required punctuality.”

Her mouth twitched maybe a smirk, maybe annoyance. “Guess you’re trying to impress the cameras already.”

You shrugged, crossing your arms. “Just doing my part.”

For a few seconds, neither of you spoke. The hum of the equipment filled the space, the silence awkward and electric. You searched for something, anything, to say.

“So…” you started, trying for casual. “What’s your favorite color?”

She blinked. “What?”

“Your favorite color,” you repeated. “Figured if we’re gonna pretend to date, I should at least know that.”

Her eyes narrowed slightly, as if she was trying to figure out if you were serious. Then, after a beat — “Orange.”

“Orange?” you said, surprised. “Didn’t expect that.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. You just… don’t seem like an orange person.”

She raised a brow. “And what exactly does an orange person look like?”

You smirked. “Brighter. Warmer.”

“Guess you don’t know me that well then,” she said, her tone light but her gaze sharp.

Before you could answer, the studio door burst open.

“Y/N’s here!” someone squealed.

KATSEYE filed in, all bright voices, laughter, and chaotic energy that filled every empty space Megan left behind.

“Hi!” Lara grinned, practically bouncing toward you. “We’re so excited you’re working with us! I’m a huge fan.”

The others echoed her excitement, a few pulling out phones for selfies, others complimenting your last album. It was overwhelming, but not unpleasant. For the first time in a while, you felt… welcomed.

“Megan didn’t tell us she already met you!” Yoonchae said, nudging her with a grin. “She’s been acting all mysterious about it.”

“She’s shy,” Lara teased. “You should’ve seen her face when she found out she was fake dating you.”

“Lara,” Megan warned, voice cool but her ears turning pink.

“Oh, come on!” Lara laughed, leaning into you with a smirk. “Don’t let her fool you, Y/N. Megan used to have the biggest crush on you. Posters, playlists, everything.”

The room erupted in laughter. You turned to Megan, who was glaring daggers at Lara, jaw tight.

“Really?” you asked, biting back a smile.

Megan crossed her arms. “Don’t listen to them. They’re delusional.”

“She’s lying,” Lara sing-songed, stepping closer to you. “She doesn’t know how lucky she is. If I were fake dating you, I’d at least pretend to enjoy it.”

The teasing was light, but there was a glint in her eyes playful, maybe even flirty. You laughed softly, shaking your head. “Careful, Lara. Headlines write themselves these days.”

The group giggled, Megan rolled her eyes, and for a fleeting moment, the tension cracked, not gone, but softened by the noise and warmth around you.

Still, when the others turned their attention to the manager, you caught Megan watching you out of the corner of her eye, guarded, unreadable, like she wasn’t sure whether to hate you or understand you.

You didn’t know which one you wanted more.

The sound booth felt smaller than it looked. Glass, wires, and too many eyes watching, producers, PR managers, stylists, cameras quietly recording every glance like it was currency.

You and Megan stood side by side, microphones adjusted, lyrics glowing on the screen in front of you.

It was a love song — of course. Soft, slow, painfully romantic. The kind that made your chest ache just trying to sing it. Cause you hate singing songs that you can't relate to, the emotion isn't there.

The instrumental began, and you traded lines.

Her voice crisp, smooth carried perfectly. Yours followed, steady but detached. Together, the harmony should’ve worked. On paper, it was flawless. In the room, it was anything but.

There was no spark. No connection. Just two professionals pretending to feel something neither of them believed in.

By the time the bridge came around, even the sound engineer looked bored.

“Okay, cut,” the producer said, sighing. “It’s technically good, but it’s missing something.”

“Emotion?” one of the assistants muttered.

You cracked a half-smile. “Guess we’re not exactly screaming passion right now.”

Megan’s lips twitched, not quite a smile. “Maybe because there isn’t any.”

The PR rep cleared her throat. “You two are supposed to look in love, remember? The world has to buy it.”

Megan turned to her, crossing her arms. “Maybe that’s the problem. You’re trying to make it look planted. Like we’re puppets on a promo tour.”

The manager blinked. “That’s literally the job.”

“No,” Megan said, calm but firm. “If you want people to believe this, it shouldn’t feel scripted. Just let us… I don’t know. Roam free a bit. Let things happen naturally.”

You looked over at her, surprised, curious. Her tone wasn’t defensive; it was passionate, sincere. The room went quiet for a second.

Then you smirked. “So, you’re saying you want to hang out with me? You know we didn't need a million dollar project for that”

Her head snapped toward you, eyes narrowing. “That’s not what I said.”

“Oh, but it sounded like it,” you teased, leaning casually on the mic stand. “You’re basically asking for more time with me. Don’t worry, I’m flattered.”

Her cheeks turned pink immediately, and she looked away, fiddling with the cable in front of her. “I’m saying it would be more believable,” she muttered, low enough that only you could hear.

You grinned, lowering your voice too. “Sure. Whatever helps you sleep at night, Orange.”

Her eyes flicked back to you, confusion, then realization and her flush deepened. “You remembered that?” she asked quietly.

“Of course,” you said, shrugging. “Thats the only thing I know about you, Favorite color.”

The producer clapped his hands together, breaking the tension. “All right, we’ll take a break. Maybe we’ll let you two… roam free for a while.”

The team chuckled, and Megan shot you a glare that didn’t quite hide the embarrassed smile tugging at her lips.

You laughed softly, stepping back from the mic. “Guess you got your wish.”

“Guess I did,” she said, rolling her eyes but the corner of her mouth betrayed her.

And just like that, for the first time since this whole mess began, the air between you wasn’t heavy.

It was awkward, strange, maybe even a little fun.

The café was one of those tucked-away spots that smelled like cinnamon and rain too cozy for two people pretending to be in love. You sat by the window, hood pulled up, sunglasses low, watching the city blur by. Megan sat across from you, scrolling through her phone like she was trying to escape into it.

The silence between you was almost peaceful. Almost.

“So,” you said finally, breaking it. “Why do you like orange? Nothing against the color,” You shrugged. “But not a lot of people pick orange. Most say blue. Safe, classic. You said orange like you meant it.”

Her lips curved just slightly. “It’s bright. Unapologetic. Reminds me of sunsets. It doesn’t try to be anything else.”

You hummed. “Figures.”

“Figures?”

“Yeah. You’re kind of like that too. Loud without meaning to be. Honest, even when you don’t want to be.”

She gave a small laugh, eyes dropping to her latte. “That’s one way to say I talk too much.”

You grinned. “I didn’t say that.”

She tilted her head, studying you now. “What’s your favorite color then?”

You hesitated. “Gray.”

“Gray?” she echoed, surprised. “Out of everything?”

“It’s… balanced,” you said after a moment. “It’s the in-between. Not light, not dark. Just there. I like that. Feels quiet.”

Megan was silent for a beat. “Well that sound depressing”

You met her eyes. “Maybe it is.”

For a second, she didn’t look away. The café noise, the hiss of milk steamers, the low hum of conversation faded into nothing. It was just her gaze, steady and soft, trying to read you like lyrics she couldn’t quite understand.

Then she smiled faintly. “You write like that too.”

“Like what?”

“Like you’re always standing in the middle of something. Halfway between holding on and letting go.”

You blinked, caught off guard. “You listen to my lyrics that closely?”

Her cheeks turned pink again, but she didn’t look away this time. “Maybe.”

You leaned forward, teasing. “So the great Megan from Katseye’s a fan?”

She rolled her eyes, pretending to check her watch. “Don’t get ahead of yourself, superstar. I just like the music.”

“Uh-huh. Sure.”

Her mouth twitched, fighting a smile. “You’re impossible.”

You sipped your coffee, hiding your grin. “That’s what they all say.”

The air shifted still awkward, but softer now, a warmth tucked between sarcasm and something else. Something that felt dangerous in its simplicity.

When the check came, Megan reached for it first. “I got it,” she said.

You raised an eyebrow. “Trying to impress me now?”

“Just trying to keep this believable,” she replied, deadpan but there was a tiny smile on her lips as she said it.

You didn’t argue. And for the first time since everything fell apart, you didn’t feel like you had to.

You been walking back toward the studio in silence, the air cool and heavy with things unsaid. When they finally stopped at the corner, Megan shoved her hands into her jacket pockets and said, almost too casually,

“Why are you even doing this? This fake dating thing. Can’t you get yourself a proper girlfriend?”

You blinked at her caught between a laugh and a sigh. “I didn’t want to do this. I think you already know.”

She looked at you, unreadable, waiting.

You swallowed, the words scraping their way out. “Fuck, the whole world knows. I used to date Jenna Ortega.”

“Didn’t you cheat, though?” Her posture stiffened. She looked like she wanted to take it back the second she opened her mouth.

You froze. Then you laughed softly, a small, humorless sound. “No I didn't, but it’s okay cause everyone seems to have their story.”

Megan’s eyes widened. “I— I didn’t mean—”

“No, really, You weren't there how would you know,” you cut in gently, voice low. “I didn’t cheat. I was crazy in love and I think a part of me still is. But we broke up because we wanted different things in life. And that’s nothing either of us could control.”

The words hung there between you. The faint hum of traffic filled the silence.

Megan looked down, kicking at a crack in the pavement. “Shit. Sorry for making the fake date all gloomy.”

You smiled faintly. “No, it’s okay.”

She glanced up then, and for the first time since you’d met her, her eyes weren’t cold just curious. Maybe a little sorry.

You exhaled, rubbing the back of your neck. “Besides, you’re not wrong. I shouldn’t even be here, doing this. But the label thinks I need to fix my image, and you…”

“…needed a PR stunt too,” she finished for you, tone flat.

“Yeah,” you said quietly. “A win-win situation. Just doesn’t feel like it sometimes.”

Megan gave a tiny nod, the corner of her mouth twitching. “Guess we’re both stuck in this together, huh?”

“Guess so,” you murmured.

It started with one photo. Just one.

You and Megan leaving that café, your heads ducked, her hand brushing yours as you both laughed at something small and stupid. Someone’s phone caught it, and within minutes it was everywhere.

#Y/NandMegan trended before you even made it back to your car.

At first, it was harmless fans screaming, edits flooding TikTok, hearts and emojis plastered over screenshots. Then came the noise. The divide.

“This is PR, right? No way it’s real.” “They actually look cute together!” “She moved on so fast from Jenna— what the hell.” “Home wrecker. Again.” "Why do I kinda ship this" "Nooo Not my Megan"

You watched it all unfold on your phone, face bathed in blue light, thumb scrolling through thousands of comments that didn’t know you but acted like they did.

Megan’s name trended beside yours, her fanbase split clean down the middle: half defending her, half tearing her apart for “selling out.” Old photos of Jenna resurfaced. Clips from red carpets. The SNL interview.

Everything came back the heartbreak, the noise, the endless judgment.

You stared at your phone until the words blurred.

Then you turned it face down and exhaled, slow and tired.

The room was quiet except for the hum of the city outside. It felt like déjà vu, the same chaos, different headline.

Your manager’s voice buzzed in your head from the meeting earlier:

“You just have to ride the wave. Don’t comment, don’t post, let it breathe. The numbers are insane already. It’s working.”

It’s working. Like this was a strategy, not a life.

You leaned back on your couch, running a hand through your hair. Your chest ached with something between frustration and numbness.

Your phone buzzed again. A text from an unknown number.

Megan:

ignore the comments. they’ll die down. you okay?

You stared at the message for a moment, then typed back:

You:

yeah. i’m used to it.

You hovered, then added another line.

thanks, though. for checking in.

A few seconds later, her reply came:

i told you orange doesn’t fade easy. we’ll be fine.

You smiled despite yourself, small, fleeting, but real.

Outside, the world was already rewriting your story again. Inside, for the first time in a long time, someone had texted you just to ask if you were okay.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

London first. Then Paris. Then Milan.

You weren’t supposed to be there, not officially. Katseye had a small European promo tour, a string of interviews, magazine shoots, and performance. You were “just tagging along,” your manager had said, for exposure.

But the thing about exposure is that it never stays small.

The first sighting hit Twitter from a blurry fan-cam outside a London café, Megan in oversized sunglasses, you behind her, laughing at something Lara said. Then came the background shots.

A reflection in a store window. A hand brushing hers in a group photo. Your jacket draped over her shoulders on a windy night in Milan.

The internet didn’t miss a thing.

“Wait, that’s Y/N in the corner, right?” “No way that’s just a coincidence.” “Look at the way she’s looking at Megan—COME ON.” “PR my ass. They’re dating.”

Each post spread like static through the timelines, edits, fan theories, deep-dives analyzing your body language. You didn’t say anything. Neither did Megan.

It was easier that way to let the world make its own story while you quietly lived inside the space between what was real and what wasn’t.

One night, after a long day of shoots, the group went out for dinner. Everyone was laughing, loud and bright, too much wine in the air. You sat at the edge of the table, half-listening, half somewhere else.

Megan leaned over, voice just loud enough to cut through the noise. “You okay?”

You nodded. “Just tired.”

She studied you for a moment, then said softly, “You should see what the internet’s doing with our photos. Apparently, we’re already married.”

You snorted. “Guess we skipped the dating phase.”

“Yeah,” she said, smiling faintly. “Guess we did.”

For a moment, the world outside didn’t exist, no fans, no cameras, no headlines. Just two people, side by side, sharing something small and quiet under the glow of European lights.

But later that night, scrolling through your phone alone in your hotel room, you saw the new headline.

“Y/N and Megan: Real or PR? Paris Sparks More Than Just Art.”

And beneath it a photo of you both. Her head tilted toward you, laughter frozen midair. Your eyes on her, like you’d forgotten there was anyone else around.

The comments were a war zone again.

“They look so good together.” “Not another rebound.” “Poor Jenna.”

You locked your phone and stared at the ceiling, heartbeat slow and heavy.

The London sky was gray, the kind that swallowed sunlight whole but somehow, the city still glimmered.

You’d spent the day wandering between shoots and interviews, Katseye scattered between stores and cobblestone streets. Big Ben, Westminster, a record store off Carnaby, a hidden café where the barista recognized Megan first.

By night, you were back at the hotel, hair damp from rain, scrolling through your camera roll, hundreds of photos that weren’t supposed to mean anything.

But some did.

A blurry shot of the Thames at dusk. The reflection of a neon sign that read stay awhile. You in an oversized gray hoodie — her hoodie — half-zipped, half carelessly hanging off your shoulder. Megan’s hand visible only in the corner of the frame, reaching for a cup of tea.

You stared at it for too long.

Then, without thinking, you opened Instagram.

@noturtypical_yn 📍London, England 🇬🇧 photo dump — tea’s warmer when you aren't drink it alone.

Ten photos. No tags. No context.

But the internet didn’t need context.

They noticed everything.

“That’s Megan’s hoodie. 100%.” “The reflection in the window?? That’s literally her.” “tea’s warmer when you aren't drink it alone?? What does that mean?!” “Y/N’s soft-launching again help 😭😭😭” “Megan posted the same café an hour before. They’re not even trying to hide it anymore.”

Within an hour, the post hit a million likes. Within three, it was all over Twitter, TikTok, and morning talk shows.

“Fans speculate Y/N and Megan’s relationship is more than PR.” “Y/N wears Megan’s hoodie in new London photo dump — coincidence or confession?” “‘Tea’s warmer when you aren't drink it alone’: fans call out emotional caption following breakup with Jenna Ortega.”

You scrolled through the headlines in silence. Megan texted you.

Megan:

you really posted that?

You:

what? it’s just a photo dump.

A pause. Then—

Megan:

you’re wearing my hoodie.

You:

so?

Megan:

you’re impossible.

You smiled at your screen like a idiot.

You:

I thought orange doesn’t fade easy, remember?

Three dots appeared. Then disappeared.

You locked your phone, still smiling, even as your pulse raced.

The morning after your London post, the internet was already boiling but it went nuclear when Katseye started posting.

First, Sophia’s carousel hit Instagram: Paris cafés, macarons, blurry rooftops, and right there, in slide six — you.

Half-hidden behind Megan in a reflection. Laughing. Head thrown back, carefree in a way you hadn’t been in months.

She didn’t tag you. She didn’t have to.

Then Lara’s photo dump dropped an hour later, Milan street markets, ice cream, and one group shot where Megan’s leaning into you a little too comfortably. Your arm was behind her chair. Not touching, not obvious. Just there.

By the time Yoonchae’s post came, fans were connecting dots like detectives on caffeine.

“Y/N in Sophia’s slide 6 😭😭😭” “How did we miss that?? That’s literally her reflection??” “They’re not even hiding anymore omg.” “London, Paris, Milan. Every post lines up with Y/N’s schedule.” “The Katseye girls are soft-launching for them now HELP.”

#YNGAN trended in under ten minutes. Memes. Edits. Theories. Compilations. The internet treated it like a true-crime investigation wrapped in a love story.

Your manager called you before noon. “What the hell did you two do?”

You leaned back in bed, voice calm. “Existed?”

“You’re in Sophia’s post!”

“I was just there.”

“Exactly!”

Across the hall, Megan’s voice carried faintly through her own phone call something about “coincidences” and “creative direction.” You could hear her trying not to laugh.

You texted her.

You:

apparently I’m haunting their photo dumps now.

A moment later, her reply buzzed back:

Megan:

yeah, you’re the ghost of PR decisions past. I bet they regret putting us together.

You:

Another PR disaster, and I'm haunting you specifically.

There was a pause. Then:

Megan:

you’re doing a good job of it.

You grinned.

Outside, the world spun itself into a frenzy, hashtags, podcasts, “insider leaks,” all dissecting moments you barely remembered.

Its dropping . Specifically your single. The night before release day felt like static. Too quiet. Too charged.

You’d been up since dawn last-minute approvals, your label triple-checking every lyric like they were mining for controversy.

But when midnight hit, Midnight Rain was released.

And suddenly, it wasn’t just a song anymore. It was a confession.

You sat on the floor of your apartment, laptop open, watching the numbers rise in real time. Streams climbing by the hundreds every few seconds. Fans dissecting the lyrics, picking them apart line by line.

It came like a postcard Picture perfect shiny family Holiday peppermint candy But for her, it's every day So I peered through a window A deep portal, time travel All the love we unravel And the life I gave away 'Cause she was sunshine, I was midnight rain

The internet exploded again.

“She’s talking about Jenna. Obviously.” “Y/N’s pen is insane. I’m crying.” “No one bleeds like this and calls it pop.” “She’s healing. You can feel it.”

Your mentions were chaos, but for once, you didn’t care. You felt… lighter. Like saying it out loud even in a melody had finally set something free.

A knock on your door pulled you back to the room.

You opened it to find Megan holding a cake shaped like a vinyl record and the rest of Katseye trailing behind her, carrying bags of snacks and a cheap bottle of champagne.

“Surprise!” Dani grinned, waving a confetti popper. “For the woman who just emotionally destroyed the entire internet!”

You laughed, stepping aside as they poured in, music already blaring from someone’s phone.

Sophia tossed her coat on your couch. “You think we weren’t gonna celebrate your first single since the storm? Please.”

Megan set the cake down, side-eyeing you with a soft smile. “You actually look happy for once.”

You raised an eyebrow. “You sound surprised.”

“I am,” she said honestly. “It suits you.”

Her voice was light, but her eyes held something else pride, maybe, or something warmer you didn’t want to name yet.

The girls started playing the song through a portable speaker, all of them yelling the chorus like it was an anthem. You groaned, hiding your face in your hands.

“Oh my god, stop!”

“Never!” Yoonchae shouted over the music. “It’s a banger!”

Megan leaned closer, her voice barely audible over the chaos. “You wrote that line — ‘She was sunshine, I was midnight rain’”

You nodded. “Yeah. I know. Its a little corny”

Megan’s expression softened, her gaze tracing your face quietly. “What do you mean this is your way of saying goodbye.”

You met her eyes, steady, quiet, a faint smile tugging at the edge of your lips. “Maybe.”

Someone popped the champagne then, and the room filled with laughter and music and flashing lights from Sophia’s phone as she recorded everything.

Later, when everyone had drifted off to sleep, Lara snoring on your couch, Yoonchae curled up under your throw blanket, you stood by the balcony, city lights flickering below.

Megan joined you, two mugs of tea in her hands. She handed you one.

"How you feeling?" she asked, voice softer than usual.

You stared down at the steam curling out of the cup. "Not good."

Her brows pulled together. “What? You just dropped another masterclass. Everyone’s losing their minds in the best way possible.”

You shook your head slowly, swallowing hard. “You want to talk about it?” she asked after a pause.

And before you could stop yourself before the guard you’d been holding for months could click back into place, your voice broke.

“I really loved her,” you whispered. The words trembled, fragile, like glass. “I still do.”

The tears came quietly, no warning, no sobs, just a slow unraveling. The kind of crying that comes from deep, not loud.

Megan froze for a second, like she didn’t know what to do with the version of you in front of her, the one without the press polish, without the armor. Then, gently, she set her mug down and stepped closer.

“You don’t have to explain,” she murmured.

“I keep telling myself I’ll move on, that I have to,” you said, voice cracking. “But every time I think I’m over her, she’s there again. A song. A photo. A fucking interview.”

Your laugh came out shaky. “And now the whole world’s dissecting my pain like it’s art.”

Megan didn’t say anything. She just stood there beside you, close enough that your shoulders brushed when the wind shifted.

“She was your first real one, huh?” she asked quietly after a while.

“Yeah.” You wiped your face with your sleeve. “And I ruined it because I was scared.”

She nodded slowly. “Then maybe this isn’t about getting over her,” she said. “Maybe it’s about forgiving yourself first.”

You turned your head, meeting her eyes. They weren’t sharp or teasing like usual. Just calm. Open.

“I don’t know how,” you admitted.

“Start small,” Megan said. “Start with tonight. You wrote the truth. You didn’t hide. That’s something.”

You looked away again, toward the city lights blinking below like a thousand tiny chances you didn’t take.

“Yeah,” you said finally, your voice barely more than a breath. “That’s something.”

The silence after that wasn’t empty like before. It was full, of what was gone, of what might still come, of something unspoken that didn’t need to be yet.

And as Midnight Rain played faintly from the other room, Megan stayed beside you quiet, steady, not trying to fix anything. Just being there.

The room had gone quiet again.

Your breathing had evened out, slower, softer, the way it does when exhaustion finally wins. Megan didn’t realize when your head tilted, falling gently onto her shoulder. She froze for a heartbeat, unsure if she should move, but you didn’t stir.

You were asleep finally, mercifully asleep.

The city lights outside painted soft lines across your face, catching the curve of your cheek, the faint remnants of tears. Megan stared for a moment, her chest tightening with something she couldn’t quite name.

Not love. Not yet. Just… something human. Something gentle.

She smiled then small, quiet, to herself and looked away toward the skyline.

“You’re really something, Y/N,” she whispered, almost like she didn’t want the night to hear it.

You woke to sunlight spilling through the curtains and the faint buzz of your phone vibrating off the table.

For a second, everything felt calm, the tea mugs on the coffee table, a blanket half-draped over your legs, the faint smell of vanilla shampoo lingering in the air. Then your screen lit up again, and the world came crashing in.

#MidnightRain — 27 million tweets. #YNLNconfession trending at #2 worldwide. Headlines flooding your feed like an avalanche:

“Y/N’s new single sends internet into meltdown — fans suspect it’s about Jenna Ortega.” “The heartbreak anthem of the decade?” “Y/N and Megan: real or PR?”

You rubbed your eyes, heart pounding as you scrolled. Photos of you and Megan in London. The matching hoodie. Sophia’s photo dump. Fans analyzing every frame like it was gospel.

Some loved it calling you and Megan the new era of power duos. Others called it damage control. And then, as always, the comments turned sharp:

“She’s faking it for attention.” “She moved on too fast.” “Jenna deserved better.”

The words blurred until they didn’t even feel like English anymore.

A soft knock pulled you out of it. Megan stood at your doorway, hair pulled back, eyes still a little tired but steady. She held two coffees this time.

“Hey,” she said, offering you one. “You’re trending again.”

You groaned, taking it from her. “Great. My favorite hobby.”

“Yeah, the internet’s basically on fire.” She sat beside you, scrolling through her own feed. “But… congratulations. Midnight Rain is #1 in twenty countries.”

You looked up, stunned. “Already?”

Megan nodded, smiling faintly. “Yeah. You did that.”

You tried to smile back, but it didn’t stick. “It doesn’t even feel good anymore. It’s like every win just comes with a bruise now.”

She studied you for a moment, your fingers fidgeting with the coffee lid, your eyes distant. Then, without overthinking it, she said,

“Come to the studio with me today.”

You blinked. “What?”

“Studio,” she repeated. “Let’s write something. Together.”

You tilted your head. “You offering to be my therapist now?”

“Please,” Megan scoffed lightly, a smirk tugging at her lips. “I charge way more for that.” Then, a little softer: “I just think maybe… you need to make something that’s yours, before the internet decides what your story is.”

You let that sink in, the way she said it, quiet but sure.

“Alright,” you said finally, a faint smile tugging at your lips. “But if we write something terrible, I’m blaming you.”

“Deal,” she said, standing and holding out her hand. “Now get dressed. We’ve got emotions to exploit.”

You laughed a small, real sound this time and took her hand.

For the first time in months, you felt something close to excitement again.

Not for the charts. Not for the cameras.

But for the music.

The studio was dim and warm, sunlight leaking in through blinds that hadn’t been adjusted since last week. The faint scent of coffee, wires, and someone’s leftover vanilla latte lingered in the air.

You sat cross-legged on the couch, hood up, hair a mess, a pen tucked behind your ear. The table was a crime scene, open notebooks, scribbled lyrics, empty paper cups, and one very patient Megan sitting across from you with her laptop open.

“You always look like this before you write?” she asked, smirking.

You looked up, deadpan. “Define this.”

“Like a mad scientist, tweaking its crazy invention.”

You snorted. “You’re not wrong.”

Reaching into your bag, you pulled out a thick, worn notebook, the spine cracked, pages sticking out with colored tabs and scribbles. It landed on the table with a dull thud.

Megan blinked. “What the hell is that?”

“My brain,” you said simply, flipping it open.

She leaned closer. “Is this… all lyrics?”

“Yeah.”

“Like, every song you’ve written?”

You nodded, flipping through the pages. Handwriting shifted, messy on some, neat on others, some half-torn, some filled corner to corner.

“How long did this take you?” she asked.

You shrugged. “About six months.”

Megan’s jaw dropped. “Six months? There’s hundreds of pages in here.”

“Yeah.” You smiled faintly. “I don’t sleep much.”

She looked at you like she was seeing you for the first time, not the PR story, not the scandal. Just an artist obsessed enough to bleed into paper for half a year.

“Okay,” she said, exhaling. “You’re insane. But like, in a brilliant way.”

“Thank you,” you said with mock solemnity, flipping to a page. “Now help me make something that doesn’t sound like I’ve lost my mind.”

Hours passed. Chords were played, lines scribbled out, melodies hummed and redone. The room filled with the rhythm of quiet laughter, occasional frustration, the soft thump of your heel against the floor when a lyric finally clicked.

You were halfway through a verse when Megan looked up from her notes, her voice breaking the calm. “Why do you keep writing about her if it hurts so much?”

You paused mid-strum, fingers hovering over the strings.

“’Cause she’s all that I had,” you said, voice low, raw. “And I just need to throw my emotions into the paper before they drown me.”

Megan stared at you, lips pressed into a thin line. “What if,” she said slowly, “you found something else to write about?”

You looked up, one eyebrow raised. “Huh. That’s funny, Orange.”

Her mouth twitched into the smallest smirk. “Yeah,” she said quietly, looking back at her notebook. “Funny.”

You stared at her for a beat too long before shaking your head and flipping to a clean page. You wrote the title at the top — Champagne Problems — and the rest of the world faded away.

The next two hours disappeared into a silence that wasn’t really silence, it was focus, harmony, the quiet electricity of two people creating something real.

Your Midas touch on the Chevy door, November flush and your flannel cure… This dorm was once a madhouse

When the last note faded, it hung in the air like smoke. Neither of you spoke.

Megan leaned back slowly, eyes wide, lips parted just slightly. “You’re unreal,” she said softly.

You gave a small, tired smile, brushing your thumb against the guitar strings. “I’m just broken in the right places.”

She didn’t argue. She just looked at you not with pity, not with curiosity, but with quiet understanding.

For the first time, the silence between you didn’t sting. It just… existed. Full. Honest.

Then the door burst open mid-laugh. Manon's voice hit first. “So this is where the magic happens!”

You looked up from the piano bench to see Katseye filing into the room, bright and noisy, all energy and color. Sophia was holding two iced coffees, Yoonchae already exploring the synth setup like she owned the place.

Megan groaned. “Please tell me you at least brought food.”

“Better,” Lara grinned, tossing her hair. “We brought company”

You chuckled, setting your guitar aside. “Great. Just what this session needed.”

The group immediately gathered around the mixing desk, asking to hear the demo. You hit play, and Champagne Problems filled the room, your voice, low and vulnerable, echoing against the walls.

When it ended, Sophia exhaled dramatically. “Holy crap. That’s… that’s insane.”

Dani nodded, eyes wide. "I think you broke me”

Lara leaned against the console, giving Megan a teasing grin. “You didn’t tell us your fake girlfriend was this talented.”

Megan rolled her eyes. “She’s not my—”

“Oh, c’mon.” Lara smirked, walking over to you. “You follow her like a little puppy and I saw you last night cuddling. That’s couple-core behavior.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “Don’t start.”

Lara tilted her head. “You know, for someone pretending to date, you two have suspiciously good chemistry.”

The room erupted in giggles. You tried to play along, but then Megan smiled and said it, lightly, innocently: “You’ve got that face when you’re focused… like the world could be burning down, and you’d still be writing a love song.”

And just like that it hit you.

Because that’s exactly what Jenna used to say. Every time you stayed up too late working, every time she caught you with that same half-dazed, lost-in-the-song expression.

Your chest tightened. The laughter around you blurred into background noise.

You forced a weak smile, mumbled something about needing air, and grabbed your lighter from the table before slipping out the side door.

The door clicked shut behind you.

Inside, the laughter dimmed.

Sophia looked at Megan, concern flickering across her face. “She okay?”

Megan’s brow furrowed, the teasing long gone. “I don’t know.”

Yoonchae nudged her gently. “Maybe… you should go check.”

Lara crossed her arms, suddenly serious. “Yeah. She looked like she saw a ghost.”

Megan hesitated, glancing toward the closed door, her expression unreadable a mix of worry and something softer she didn’t want to name.

“Go,” Sophia said quietly. “She’ll listen to you.”

So Megan stood, sliding her phone into her pocket, and headed out after you, with the backtrack still echoing faintly from the studio monitors behind her.

The air outside was cold, sharp against your skin. You leaned against the railing, the city stretching endlessly below, headlights like veins of light running through the dark.

The first drag burned in your chest, the kind that hurt just enough to remind you you’re still alive. Smoke drifted upward, disappearing into the night sky, and for a few seconds, it was just you and the low hum of traffic.

Then the door creaked open behind you.

Megan stepped out, wrapping her jacket tighter around herself. “Thought I’d find you here,” she said softly.

You didn’t look up. “Congratulations. You’re officially psychic.”

She came closer, stopping a few feet away. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” you lied, exhaling a thin stream of smoke. “Just needed air.”

Megan leaned against the railing beside you, hands in her pockets. For a while, neither of you spoke. The city moved on without waiting for either of you to catch up.

After a beat, she wrinkled her nose. “You know I always hate smoking.”

You glanced sideways at her, a half-smile tugging at your lips. “Yeah, you’ve mentioned.”

“I just don’t get it. It’s bad for your voice, your health, your everything.”

You took another drag, eyes on the skyline. “Well, it’s a part of me,” you said simply. “So you’re gonna have to get used to it.”

She laughed softly, shaking her head. “You’re impossible.”

“Thanks. It’s part of my charm.”

The quiet settled again, comfortable this time. The kind of silence that doesn’t demand to be filled.

You turned slightly, watching her in the faint glow of the balcony light. “You know,” you said, a teasing lilt in your tone, “I still can’t believe you’re jealous of my bias.”

She blinked. “What?”

“Lara,” you said, smirking. “You were totally jealous that one time.”

Megan rolled her eyes. “Please. I’m not jealous of your little crush on my bandmate.”

“Sure,” you said, dragging out the word, clearly unconvinced. “That’s why you almost killed me with your stare when I said she was my bias.”

“Maybe I was just offended by your taste,” she shot back, smiling now.

You laughed a real one this time, low and unguarded. “Yeah, keep telling yourself that, Orange.”

Her smile softened then, fading into something smaller, warmer. She looked at you, really looked, at the way the city lights caught in your hair, the faint curve of a smirk you didn’t quite mean.

And for a moment, there was no fake dating, no contracts, no rumors just two people sharing quiet, smoky air and pretending the world wasn’t watching.

You watched her as she leaned on the railing beside you, eyes fixed on the skyline. The lights reflected in her pupils, turning them gold for a heartbeat. She looked softer like this, not the pop phenomenon, not the sharp-tongued idol, just a girl staring at a city that never really let her rest.

For a while, neither of you said anything. Just the faint sound of wind and your cigarette burning slow between your fingers.

Then Megan spoke, voice low, almost lost to the air. “You know… I didn’t even want to do this PR thing.”

You glanced at her. “No kidding. You made that pretty clear.”

She gave a small laugh, one without humor. “Yeah. Guess I did.”

She hesitated, biting the inside of her cheek before continuing. “I said no at first. Told my team I didn’t want to fake something for headlines. But they said you needed it, and that it would be good for both of us. So I said fine. Whatever.”

Her fingers drummed against the cold metal railing. “I told myself I could handle it. That it was just a gig. But then I met you, and—”

She stopped, letting out a breath that sounded more like surrender.

“And you were exactly what I was afraid of.”

You frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

She turned to look at you then, really look at you. “You're Cool. Charming. Funny in that stupid, effortless way. Kind. The kind of person who makes it too easy to forget this is fake.”

You blinked, thrown off balance. “Megan—”

“But you’re not over her,” she said, the words landing soft but heavy. “I see it every time you talk about music, or when a song slips her name in without meaning to. And I get it. I do. But that’s why I didn’t want this.”

The silence after that wasn’t awkward. It was heavy, honest.

You stared at the city below, exhaling smoke through your nose. “You make it sound like I’m dangerous.”

She gave a small smile. “Maybe you are. Just not in the way people think.”

You laughed under your breath, flicking the ash away. “Guess we’re both bad at pretending.”

“Guess so,” she said quietly.

“Do you ever think you’ll be over her?” she asked softly.

You met her eyes. There was no accusation in her voice this time, no judgment, just an honest question, one you didn’t have an answer for.

“I don’t know,” you said after a long pause. Then, quieter: “But… do you want to help me?”

Her lips parted, just barely. The space between you felt thin, fragile.

You didn’t move at first. Neither did she. It was as if both of you were waiting for the other to blink, to break whatever spell hung between you.

Then she leaned in, slow and uncertain, and you met her halfway.

The kiss wasn’t desperate or perfect. It wasn’t movie-scripted or practiced. It was hesitant, trembling, two people reaching out for comfort and finding confusion instead.

For a moment, the noise of the city vanished. The lights blurred. The hurt, the headlines, the ghosts of old love, all of it faded, just for the length of a single breath shared between you.

When you pulled back, the air was thick again. Megan’s eyes flicked down, then back up to meet yours, wide, searching, unsure.

Neither of you said a word.

The cigarette burned out between your fingers, forgotten.

And somewhere far below, a camera shutter clicked.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Y/N Y/L/N and Megan from Katseye caught sharing a kiss on balcony in LA PR or real? Fans divided after viral photo. From heartbreak to new beginnings? Y/N moves on after Ortega split.

It was everywhere. Twitter. Instagram. TikTok edits set to Midnight Rain, your voice over grainy zoomed-in footage, the kind that blurred lines between truth and story.

Katseye’s fandom went feral. Your fans lost their minds. Half of them were writing wedding hashtags; the other half were calling it staged.

But the industry didn’t care about the truth, it cared about numbers. And the numbers? They were exploding.

Midnight Rain shot back up to #1. The video’s views doubled overnight. Katseye’s new album, broke their own streaming record within a week.

And by the time the VMA nominations dropped, the world had already decided the storyline for you.

Song of the Year: Midnight Rain – Y/N Y/L/N Best Group: Katseye

The living room was a mess of blankets, half-empty popcorn bowls, and the kind of laughter that only comes after weeks of pretending things aren’t complicated. Katseye had decided on a “movie night” to celebrate the nominations, which mostly meant chaos, inside jokes, and everyone arguing over subtitles.

You were sitting on the couch, With you tucked against megan, your head resting lightly on her shoulder. The movie played in the background, forgotten. Somewhere between the opening credits and the first plot twist, you’d both just… stayed like that.

Lara was the first to notice. Of course she was.

“Well, well, look at this,” Lara grinned, tossing a piece of popcorn in your direction. “PR couple of the year actually acting like a couple.”

You didn’t flinch. You just smiled, tilting your head slightly. “We’re method actors, what can I say.”

Dani leaned over the arm of the couch, trying not to giggle. “Oh, totally. Such commitment to the role, Y/N.”

Even Sophia joined in, her tone teasing but gentle. “You two sure you’re not rehearsing for another music video?”

Megan groaned, pulling the blanket up to cover her face. “You guys are so annoying.”

“Oh come on,” Lara shot back, “don’t hide now! We all saw that look you gave her during the bridge of Midnight Rain. You were down bad.”

You laughed, low and easy. “Can you blame her?”

That earned a collective “ooooh” from the girls, and even Megan’s ears went red under the blanket.

She turned her face slightly, mumbling, “You’re insufferable.”

You grinned. “You like it.”

The teasing went on for a few more minutes, playful jabs, fake gasps, mock interviews until the movie faded entirely into background noise.

By the time it was halfway through, everyone else had drifted off into their own conversations. Megan was still there, half-asleep leaning on your head.

You glanced up at her. Her breathing was steady, calm. The weight of her head against you felt strangely grounding.

For the first time in months, maybe longer, you weren’t thinking about Jenna. You weren’t thinking about the headlines.

Just this.

The hum of the TV. The warmth of the blanket. The quiet.

You sighed softly. “Guess PR’s not that bad after all.”

Megan didn’t open her eyes, but you could hear the faintest smile in her voice when she murmured back, “Shut up.”

The morning after movie night was unusually quiet. The kind of quiet that settles after laughter, warm, soft, fleeting.

You woke first. The room was bathed in pale morning light, the curtains still half-drawn. Megan was curled up beside you on the couch, hair messy, blanket tangled around her legs. The others had crashed on the floor a pile of limbs, hoodies, and empty snack wrappers.

For a second, you just watched her. The rise and fall of her shoulders. The small frown she made even in her sleep.

You were supposed to get up. You had press calls, rehearsals, fittings. But instead, you reached for your phone. The first thing on your feed was impossible to miss:

VMA Host Announced: Jenna Ortega Returns to the Stage. Special segments include Song of the Year & Best Group presentations.

Your chest tightened. Of course she was.

It had to be her.

You scrolled further, seeing edits already forming, split screens of you on stage performing Midnight Rain and her standing behind the mic in that effortless way she had. The caption beneath read:

“From lovers to legacy — full circle moment?”

You dropped your phone onto the couch and rubbed your eyes.

“Hey,” a sleepy voice mumbled beside you.

Megan blinked awake, squinting. “You good?”

You hesitated. “Jenna’s hosting the VMAs.”

That woke her up fast. “Oh.” A pause. Then, softer, “You okay with that?”

You shrugged, trying to play it off. “Yeah. Totally. Just another award show, right?”

She studied you, the way you wouldn’t quite meet her eyes, the way your hands fidgeted. “Right.”

The silence hung heavy for a beat too long before Lara’s voice cut through from the floor. “Guys, if you’re gonna whisper all morning, at least make coffee first.”

Megan laughed quietly, standing to stretch. “Come on, Popstar. We’ve got rehearsals to ruin.”

You smirked, but it didn’t reach your eyes. “Perfect. Let’s give them a show.”

The stage lights were blinding. Screens rolled footage, sound checks echoed through the arena. You were halfway through your sound test when the main doors opened.

Jenna Ortega walked in poised, calm, headset in hand.

The crew turned. Whispers started.

Your throat went dry. You hadn’t seen her since that night, the one where she’d walked away without looking back.

And now, she was walking straight toward the stage, her eyes already locked on you.

Megan noticed the shift instantly. Her jaw tightened, her smile disappeared.

You adjusted your mic, trying to sound casual. “Guess the host’s here.”

Megan didn’t respond, she just looked between the two of you, her expression unreadable.

Jenna stopped at the edge of the stage, lifted the mic, and smiled. Professional. Effortless. Beautiful.

“Hey Y/N,” she said, voice steady, eyes sharp. “Long time.”

You exhaled slowly. “Yeah. Feels like a lifetime.”

The night of the VMAs felt electric, the kind of electricity that hums under your skin before a storm.

Flashes went off like fireworks outside the venue, voices calling your name as you stepped onto the red carpet. Reporters shouted questions over each other, the roar of the crowd drowning out every thought except one, she’s in there.

Jenna Ortega. Your ex. The host. The woman you hadn’t stopped writing about.

But this time… you weren’t alone.

Megan walked beside you, dressed in an orange gown that caught every camera flash like it was built to burn. Your hand brushed hers, almost by accident and she didn’t move away.

The photographers went feral.

“Y/N and Megan making it official?” “First red carpet together!” “Power couple of the year!”

You could almost hear your PR team in your head: Smile. Be natural. Sell it.

But as the two of you paused for photos, Megan leaned close her voice barely above a whisper. “You ready to hard launch this?”

You grinned, all teeth. “You sure you can handle it?”

Her laugh was quiet, genuine. “Try me.”

And so, you did.

You slipped your arm around her waist, pulling her just slightly closer, and the crowd exploded. The moment was effortless two silhouettes framed by light, her orange against your black suit, both of you looking like you’d been doing this forever.

You didn’t plan the kiss on the cheek. You didn’t even think about it.

It just happened.

Quick, soft, but undeniably real.

By the time you reached the end of the carpet, the internet had already broken.

Y/N & Megan Official: “Hard launch at the VMAs.” From fake dating to real chemistry? Fans say it’s not PR anymore.

Inside, you could feel the tension shift. Every time you caught sight of Jenna, greeting celebrities, fixing her cue cards, that same professional smile painted on, something twisted in your chest.

When she took the stage later that night, mic in hand, her voice carried easily through the hall. “Up next — Best Group.”

The camera panned across Katseye, Megan’s hand tightening around yours beneath the table. You squeezed back, discreet, grounding her.

“And the VMA goes to…” Jenna’s eyes flicked briefly to you, just long enough for you to feel it. “…Katseye!”

The room erupted. The girls screamed, hugged each other, cameras flashing everywhere. Megan stood up, breathless, and before heading to the stage, she turned and maybe out of impulse, maybe out of something deeper, kissed you.

Full. Real. Unscripted.

The entire arena lost it. And Jenna… froze.

Her applause came half a beat too late. Her smile the one that never faltered, almost cracked.

As Katseye ran up to accept the award, you stayed seated, watching the chaos unfold under flashing lights, the weight of the moment settling in your chest.

You’d just made it official. You’d just hard-launched the lie that had somehow started to feel true.

And across the stage, under all the noise and the color, Jenna Ortega watched you, eyes unreadable, jaw tight, the world spinning around her.

The room was still vibrating from Katseye’s win when the next cue came. You were trying to focus on the stage, on the lights, on the sound of applause still echoing but your heartbeat wouldn’t slow down.

Megan had gone backstage with the group, clutching her trophy, glowing with that fierce, genuine pride that made her look like she belonged under the lights.

You stayed seated, hands clasped, trying not to think about how real that kiss felt. How it wasn’t part of the act anymore.

Then the house lights dimmed again.

The next segment flashed across the giant LED screen:

Song of the Year – Presented by Jenna Ortega.

You laughed quietly under your breath. “Of course.”

The crowd roared when she walked out. Hair sleek, suit black and sharp, confidence radiating from every step. Professional. Composed. Dangerous.

“Music,” she began, voice smooth through the speakers, “has always been the most honest kind of storytelling. Tonight, we celebrate a song that did exactly that.”

The nominees rolled on screen. Your name came last. Midnight Rain – Y/N Y/L/N.

You didn’t move. You couldn’t.

“And the VMA for Song of the Year goes to…” A long, deliberate pause. She glanced up — directly at you. “…Y/N Y/L/N, Midnight Rain.”

The room exploded.

You stood up automatically, a practiced smile on your face, walking to the stage as the music swelled. But when you reached her, when she handed you the award everything around you blurred.

“Congratulations,” she said quietly, almost beneath the cheers. “Thank you,” you breathed.

Your fingers brushed as you took the trophy. Electric. Immediate. Wrong.

You started your speech, thanking your team, your fans, Megan, Katseye, everyone but your eyes kept drifting back to her. She stood just offstage, looking at you with an expression that was impossible to name.

When it was over and the cameras cut, you turned to leave but she stepped forward, close enough that only you could hear her.

“Meet me at the after party,” she murmured. Her voice wasn’t steady this time. It trembled just barely.

You hesitated. “Jen—”

She didn’t let you finish. “Please.”

Then she was gone, walking offstage, smile already back in place for the next segment.

You stood there for a moment longer, trophy in hand, applause fading. Somewhere backstage, Megan was waiting probably still glowing, still proud.

But all you could hear were those two words.

Meet me.

--

You and Megan slipped out through the side entrance, her hand finding yours instinctively as the crowd of photographers surged.

“Y/N! Over here! One picture!” “Are you two official now?” “Y/N, did you see Jenna inside?”

The questions came like bullets, sharp and endless. You flinched slightly as the cameras closed in too bright, too loud, too familiar.

Before you could react, Megan stepped in front of you. Her arm reached back, a small but certain gesture, shielding your face from the flashes.

“Enough!” she called out, voice steady but fierce. “Back up.”

The photographers froze not expecting the sudden fire in her tone. She guided you through the chaos, her palm still at your back, eyes locked ahead.

When you finally reached the car, breath catching in the cold air, she glanced at you, her expression softening instantly. “You okay?”

You nodded slowly, voice low. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“I know,” she said, a faint smile tugging at her lips. “But I wanted to.”

The cameras still clicked in the distance, but it didn’t matter. For once, someone wasn’t using the spotlight to show you off, they were using it to protect you.

And somehow, that felt louder than all the noise in the world.

The car ride away from the VMAS the kind of silence that felt like exhaling after holding your breath too long. Neon lights faded in the windows, replaced by the soft rhythm of rain against the glass.

You and Megan were supposed to be headed to the biggest party of the year. The label expected it, the cameras waited for it. But when the driver asked, “After-party?” Megan met your eyes, and both of you said at the same time, “Home.”

Fifteen minutes later, you were in sweats, makeup half-wiped, hair a mess. The VMA trophy sat forgotten on the coffee table between a pile of snacks and two mugs of tea.

Megan grinned, dragging a blanket across the couch. “We could still make it a party,” she said, piling cushions into a ridiculous fort.

You laughed really laughed for the first time all night. “You’re such a child.”

“Correction,” she said, crawling inside and peeking out. “I’m a Grammy-nominated child.”

You tossed her a pillow. “VMA-winning, technically.”

She smiled, eyes glinting. “Right. And you’re the heartbreak poet.”

The two of you sat there in the fort, fairy lights dim, the room smelling faintly of popcorn and shampoo. She played with the edge of her blanket, and you leaned back, feeling the kind of quiet that didn’t need to be filled.

Outside, the city buzzed with after-party lights and noise. Inside, it was just you and her, safe, hidden, laughing under a blanket fort built out of exhaustion and something that might have been the start of peace.

Megan glanced over, her voice soft. “Who needs champagne when you’ve got hot cocoa and a fort?”

You smiled, eyes half-closed. “Exactly.”

Your phone buzzed on the coffee table, once, twice, then again. You didn’t move at first, still half-curled under the blanket fort as Megan rambled about her childhood cat that once got stuck in a guitar case.

But the screen lit up again, and this time you saw the name.

Jen

You didn’t show up. I just wanted to talk. Please, Y/N.

Your chest tightened, that familiar ache, the one that used to knock the air out of you. For a second, you just stared at the messages. Then you saw the earlier one, the one she’d sent months ago before she blocked you. The one that simply said, “You made your choice.”

You swallowed hard, thumb hovering over the screen. Then you typed, slowly:

Oh, so now you unblock me?

You stared at it for a long moment, then hit send. No punctuation. No filter. Just the truth cold and tired.

The typing bubble popped up for a few seconds, then disappeared. You locked the phone, flipped it screen-down, and pushed it aside like it was something that could burn you.

“Everything okay?” Megan asked gently, eyes still soft in the glow of the fairy lights.

You forced a small smile. “Yeah. Just ghosts.”

She nodded, not pressing. “Well, tell the ghosts they can’t join our fort unless they bring snacks.”

That made you laugh quiet, real. The tension bled out of your shoulders as you leaned back against a pillow, facing her fully.

“Okay, fine,” you said, voice lighter. “Continue the story"

Her grin returned instantly. “Okay so I was chaotic child, like the type of child that other mothers recommend ADHD medication. And I once tried to dye my hair pink with Kool-Aid, it was a mess and ruined my mom’s sink. I think you still see the stains”

You snorted. “That’s actually iconic.”

As she kept talking about the Husky, the Kool-Aid, the first time she ever sang on stage, you found yourself watching her more than listening. The way she used her hands when she spoke, the way her laughter filled the space that used to echo with regret.

Your phone buzzed again in the background. You didn’t even look this time.

Jenna had your past. But tonight, Megan had your attention and for once, that felt like enough.

🏷️

-Flashback 15 years ago-

The rain outside was soft and steady, tapping against the windows like a lullaby. The living room smelled faintly of old books, tea, and lemon polish, the scent of every childhood memory.

You sat cross-legged on the floor, a guitar nearly as big as you resting on your lap. Your tiny fingers fumbled across the strings, trying to remember the chords Gran Gran had shown you just minutes ago.

“G… then D… now C,” she said, her voice patient but teasing, like she’d done this dance before.

“I am doing it,” you grumbled, the sound that came out of the guitar somewhere between a note and a squeak.

Gran Gran chuckled, scooting closer on the couch, her silver hair tied back with a faded ribbon. “You’ve got to press harder, sweetie. Music doesn’t come easy, but it’s worth every callus.”

You nodded with all the seriousness a six-year-old could muster and tried again. The chords came out awkward, uneven… but they were chords. Sort of.

“That’s it!” she said, clapping softly. “Now let’s give Mr. Billy Joel a little chaos.”

And she started to sing, off-key but joyful 🎵 “Sing us a song, you’re the piano man…” 🎵

You followed along, your fingers slipping, strings buzzing, and both of you laughing so hard the rhythm fell apart completely.

“Gran, I messed up again!”

“No, no,” she said, still smiling, “you made it yours.”

- Twelve years later -

You were eighteen when the world went silent.

The house smelled of lilies and rain, the same scent that clung to the black clothes hanging by the door. The living room was full of flowers, condolences, and the low hum of whispered sympathy that never reached you. You sat there, hands clasped, eyes fixed on nothing.

Gran Gran placed a trembling hand over yours. “Dear…” she started, her voice soft, breaking. “It’s okay to cry, you know.”

But you couldn’t. You didn’t even know how to.

Your throat burned, your chest felt hollow like something had been scooped out but no tears came. Just the dull ringing in your ears, the sound of your own pulse keeping time with the ache.

Afterward, she turned to you, eyes red and glistening in the dim light of the funeral home. “You’ll come live with me, won’t you?” she asked softly, her voice trembling like a loose string.

You shook your head slowly. “No, Gran Gran. I can’t.”

Her lips parted, ready to speak but you rushed to fill the silence before it swallowed you both.

“I need to do something… I need to make it mean something. I promised them I’d make it big, that I’d be someone they’d be proud of.”

“Dear…” She took a small step forward, her hands reaching for yours. “You should stay with me.”

You took a shaky breath, shaking your head harder this time. “Gran Gran, I can’t. I need to finish my songs and send them to my label, I need to make them proud, I need to—”

“Y/N, stop.” Her voice cracked, sharp now, full of fear. “Just stay with me. You are a kid. You still have school, you still have time—”

“No, Gran Gran!” The words ripped out of you before you could catch them. “I can’t stop! I need to make them proud!”

And before she could answer, before her voice could break again and undo you, you turned and ran.

Out the door. Down the street. Into the rain.

Your shoes splashed against the pavement, lungs burning, heart pounding with something you didn’t have a name for. Grief, guilt, maybe both.

Behind you, her voice carried faintly through the downpour, your name, soft and breaking but you didn’t stop. You couldn’t.

Because stopping meant feeling, and feeling meant falling apart.

And you did. But some part of you stayed there at the edge of that cemetery, eighteen and un-crying, promising the sky that you’d turn pain into music.

TIME PASSES —

The screen fades to black.

Then: A faint click. A cassette wheel turns.

One voicemail plays.

“Hey, sweetheart. It’s me. Just wanted to check in, haven’t heard from you in a bit. I made your favorite stew again… figured I’d save some in the freezer for when you visit. Call me when you can, okay? Love you.”

Beep.

Weeks later, another.

“Y/N, it’s Gran Gran. I saw your little video online, that song you posted. You look so grown. I’m proud of you, you know? Always have been. Maybe next time you’re in town, you could stop by? The house feels too quiet without you.”

Beep.

Months roll by. Seasons change.

“It’s getting cold again. I found that old guitar, the one you used to drag around everywhere. Still sounds awful.” She laughs softly. “You used to play Piano Man so terribly it made the cat hide under the couch. Come visit, dear. Please.”

Beep.

“Happy birthday, my love. 19 already… I wish I could bake your cake in person. I know you’re busy with all that music stuff, but… don’t forget to eat, okay?”

Beep.

“Y/N… I miss you. Just call me when you can. I don’t even need you to come over. Just want to hear your voice.”

Beep.

“You’re really doing it, aren’t you? I saw you on TV. Your parents would’ve been so proud.” A long pause. “I just wish I could see you too.”

Beep.

The tape clicks again. Silence.

Just the hum of the city outside your apartment window. The sound of success and everything you’d traded for it.

——

The road winds through sleepy suburbs and open fields, sunlight slanting through the windshield. You grip the steering wheel tightly, knuckles white. Jenna sits in the passenger seat, quiet sensing the weight in the air.

“You okay?” she asks softly.

You nod, forcing a small smile. “Yeah… just haven’t been back here in a long time.”

The closer you get, the smaller everything feels, the streets, the houses, the memories. Every corner holds a ghost of your childhood.

You pull into the gravel driveway. The house looks almost the same, the paint’s faded, the garden a little wild, but the wind chime still sings on the porch.

You step out of the car and just… stand there.

Jenna looks at you, then gently takes your hand. “Come on. She’s waiting.”

You nod, exhaling shakily, and walk to the door.

“Y/N?”

Her voice cracks before you even see her. Gran Gran stands in the doorway, smaller than you remember, frailer, but her eyes are still the same. You freeze for half a second before she pulls you into her arms.

You sink into her chest like a child again, the smell of lavender and old books washing over you. “Oh, my sweet girl… you finally came home.”

You want to say something, I’m sorry, I missed you, I should’ve called but the words don’t come.

Jenna watches quietly from the side, her lips pressed together, not wanting to intrude. But Gran Gran notices her. “And who’s this lovely young woman?”

You finally speak. “Gran Gran, this is Jenna. She’s—” You hesitate. “—a friend.”

Jenna gives a small, polite smile and offers her hand. Gran Gran takes it warmly. “Any friend of my Y/N’s is family here. Sit, sit, I’ll make tea.”

You and Jenna sit on the old couch, the same one you used to jump on as a kid. Gran Gran hums in the kitchen.

Jenna leans toward you, whispering: “She’s sweet. You didn’t tell me she still had so much energy.”

You smile softly, eyes glassy. “Yeah… she never really stops. Even when the world does.”

That night, after Jenna’s fallen asleep on the couch, Gran Gran finds you standing in the doorway. “You’re doing good, sweetheart,” she says softly. “But don’t let the world make you forget where you started.”

You look at her, eyes wet. “I won’t, Gran Gran. I promise.”

She nods, smiling. “Good. Because I think your parents would’ve liked this Jenna girl.”

You laugh quietly a sad, honest sound.

“Yeah,” you whisper. “I think so too.”

-Flashback Over-

You blink, and the city hums back into focus. The neon reflections of New York bleed through the car window beside you. The past dissolves into the present, colder, emptier.

Your phone buzzes in your hand.

Mei Mei 💕💕💕💕💕💕💕

hey… i can’t make it to new york for the live show. something came up with katseye’s schedule. i’m sorry :(

You stare at the screen for a long second. The exhaustion from rehearsal.

You type slowly.

Y/N

it’s okay, meg. don’t worry about it. i miss you so much❤️

A minute passes. No typing bubble. Just the blue glow of the phone lighting your face in the dark.

You sigh and set it down beside you, leaning your head back against the seat.

--

Megan sat cross-legged on the studio floor, headphones around her neck, a cup of lukewarm tea untouched beside her. The Katseye girls lounged around her, sprawled on couches and chairs, voices low but animated.

“I’m just… I don’t know,” Megan admitted, biting the inside of her cheek. “I’m worried about Y/N. And now this SNL thing with Jenna… it’s just making it worse. I can’t stop thinking about her, and I keep wondering if she’s really over Jenna.”

Lara nudged her playfully. “Are we talking about the same Y/N? The one who is head over heels for you. The one that memorised every single thing about you and literally sparkles every time I even mention you”

Megan stiffened. “I saw… I found her notebook.” She waved her hands like it was evidence of a crime. “Pages and pages of songs she wrote… and it’s all… about Jenna. I mean, she’s pouring her heart into this album, but I can’t shake the feeling that she’s still in love with her.”

Sophia leaned forward, smirking. “So? Then what are you gonna do? Sit here and panic?”

Yoonchae chimed in, teasing, “Girl, when you see her next, just ask her. She’s yours… if you want her.”

Megan exhaled sharply, crossing her arms. “It’s not that simple. She’s… complicated. And she’s Y/N. Everything she does is intense. I can’t just walk in and ask, ‘Hey, do you still love me?’”

Lara laughed softly. “Well, if you don’t, someone else might.”

Megan’s gaze dropped to the floor, a mixture of frustration, fear, and longing churning in her chest. “I just… I want to protect her. From Jenna. From the spotlight. From herself. But right now… I feel like I can’t protect anything.”

Yoonchae reached over, nudging Megan’s shoulder. “Then trust yourself. And trust her. You two have been through too much to let fear get in the way now.”

Megan looked up, cheeks flushed, and murmured, “I just… I don’t want to lose her to the past.”

Lara grinned. “Then go. Don’t think. Just talk to her.”

Megan bit her lip, nodding faintly, knowing she had to find the courage... soon.

--

The laughter from the monologue still lingers faintly as the lights dim, the SNL stage shifting into something quieter, softer. The cameras glide into place. The crew clears out. You stand alone under a wash of amber light, guitar in hand.

The audience cheers loud, wild but it fades into a hush as you adjust the mic.

“Performing All Too Well, from her new album Smoke & Orange… Y/N.”

The cue echoes, and then silence.

You strum once. The familiar ache of the chords vibrates through your chest. The sound is tender, trembling.

Your voice is barely above a whisper at first.

"I walked through the door with you, the air was cold"

Every word pulls something out of you, memories you swore you buried.

You look up once the crowd blurs under the lights. For a heartbeat, you see Jenna standing just offstage, eyes glassy but proud. Knowing this song was about the two of you

The bridge hits, and your voice breaks not perfectly, but beautifully. It’s raw, the kind of sound that isn’t meant to be pretty. It’s meant to hurt.

By the time the last chord rings out, your hands are trembling. The audience is silent for a beat, then the applause comes crashing in.

You take a small breath, smile through it, and whisper into the mic, “Thank you.”

The lights fade to black.

“Y/N… that was… incredible,” she says softly, her hand brushing yours. “I… I don’t think anyone’s ever seen you like that.”

You nod, trying to smile, but your phone vibrates violently in your pocket. The screen flashes a number you don’t recognize.

It rings once. Twice. Your heart thuds in your chest. Finally, you swipe to answer.

“Hello?” Your voice is cautious.

“Is this Y/N Y/L/N?” the nurse asks, clipped, urgent.

“Depends… who’s asking?” You hesitate, a sinking feeling in your stomach.

“Saint Charles Hospital,” she says. “We need you to come in immediately. We have a patient in the ER, currently preparing for surgery, who listed you as the emergency contact… Esther L/N. She’s in critical condition.”

Your breath catches. You whisper, barely audible: “Gran Gran…”

“I’ll be there as soon as possible,” you add quickly, your voice steadier than you feel. “Please… keep me updated.”

Your hands shake, and you immediately start booking a flight. Fingers fumbling over the screen, heart hammering in your chest.

Jenna watches you, alarm crossing her face. “What’s wrong?”

“My Gran Gran… she’s… she’s in the hospital. Critical. I need to get to her.”

Without hesitation, she grabs her coat. “I’m coming with you.”

The chaos of SNL fades as the world narrows to this you, Jenna, and the sudden, sharp fear that has replaced the elation of the stage.

You both rush through the streets of New York toward the airport, adrenaline and worry spiking with every step. The victory of the performance feels meaningless now.

All that matters is getting home.

The city lights blur beneath you as you race through the airport, luggage bouncing against your leg. Your hands are clammy, your heart hammering. Every announcement over the speakers feels like it’s slowing time.

Jenna grabs your arm firmly. “Stop panicking. We’ll get you there.”

You shake your head. “I can’t believe this. I just—”

“I know,” she interrupts, voice calm but firm. “I’ll handle it. Go.”

Before you can protest, she’s on her phone, moving faster than you thought possible. Seconds later, a gate agent waves her over, nodding as if she’s part of some secret plan.

“Fastest flight possible. Seat secured. Priority boarding. You’re going first,” she says, relief tinged with frustration. “You’re not missing this.”

You barely have time to process before you’re strapped in, seatbelt clicking, engines roaring. Jenna sits beside you, hand brushing yours. “We’ll make it. I promise.”

The plane lifts off, slicing through clouds like a knife. You stare out the window, city lights fading, anxiety twisting in your stomach. You clutch your phone, imagining Gran Gran in the hospital, every second stretching unbearably long.

Jenna leans closer, whispering, “Hey… you’re not alone. I’m here. We’ll get there.”

You nod, swallowing hard, trying to steady your breathing. The world outside the window is a blur, but in that small cabin, for the first time in hours, you feel a thread of calm, held by her presence, by her insistence that you won’t face this alone.

The plane touches down in Los Angeles with a jolt that sends your stomach flipping. You barely register the landing before you’re hustled through the airport, Jenna at your side, grabbing a cab to Saint Charles Hospital.

The traffic crawls, red brake lights stretching like a river ahead. Your chest tightens. You can’t catch your breath. Your hands shake, and the world starts to tilt.

“Y/N?” Jenna’s voice cuts through the panic. She leans toward you, placing a firm hand on your knee. “Look at me. Breathe with me. In… and out. Okay?”

Your vision tunnels. “I… I can’t… I can’t—”

“Yes, you can,” she interrupts, her tone soft but unyielding. She mirrors your breathing, slow and steady. “Focus on me. In… two… three… out… two… three.”

Tears prick your eyes. You grip the seat, trying to ground yourself. She slides closer, resting her forehead lightly against your shoulder. “It’s okay. I’ve got you. You’re safe. We’re almost there.”

The cab inches forward, each light and turn a test of will, but with Jenna’s presence, the spiraling panic loosens its grip just enough for you to breathe.

“Almost… there,” she whispers, hand never leaving yours. “You’re not alone in this, Y/N. Not now, not ever.”

By the time the hospital looms ahead, your chest heaves with shaky relief. The panic hasn’t fully gone, but you’ve survived it anchored by her steadfast presence.

You grab the door handle, and she gently squeezes your hand. “Come on. Let’s see Gran Gran.”

You nod, bracing yourself. Every step toward the emergency entrance feels like running straight into your heart’s deepest fear.

The hospital doors slide open and the sterile smell hits you first. Beeping monitors, hurried footsteps, distant voices, none of it matters.

You stumble forward, eyes wide, searching desperately for anyone, a nurse, a doctor, anyone to tell you she’s alright.

A nurse passes by without a glance, her pace brisk, leaving your heart hammering in your chest.

You call out, voice cracking, “Please! Someone tell me she’s okay!”

Finally, a figure approaches a doctor, white coat crisp, expression serious but calm. He stops a few feet away, folding his hands in front of him.

“Are you Y/N L/N?” he asks, his voice steady.

You nod frantically, words failing you. Your hands tremble, chest tight, breath shallow.

The doctor exhales softly, a hint of regret in his eyes. “I’m so sorry. We did everything we could…”

The world tilts sideways, and you feel yourself collapse into Jenna’s arms, the spiral of panic and grief swallowing you whole.

The words don’t register at first. Your throat closes. Your legs buckle, and Jenna catches you instantly, holding you up.

“No… no, this can’t—” Your voice cracks, raw and broken. “She… she was fine… she just—”

Jenna’s arms tighten around you. “I know… I know… I’m here. I’m here.”

But even with her presence, you feel yourself unraveling. The world tilts sideways. Memories of her hands, her smile, the way she guided your tiny fingers on the guitar come crashing in unbearable, irretrievable.

You stumble to the nearest chair, knees shaking, head in your hands. Hot tears burn your eyes as your chest heaves.

“I… I promised her,” you choke out. “I promised I’d make her proud… and now she’s gone…”

Jenna sits beside you, holding your hand, but she doesn’t try to fill the silence with words. Some things can’t be fixed, and she knows it.

You feel yourself spiraling, the panic from the cab now magnified, grief gnawing at every corner of your chest. The city outside the hospital fades. The performances, the albums, the fame, none of it matters.

All that’s left is a gaping hole where Gran Gran’s love and guidance used to be.

The car is almost silent, the hum of the engine and the tires on the road the only sounds between you. The city lights blur past the windows, streaks of gold and red, but you hardly notice.

You sit stiffly, hands curled in your lap, jaw tight, eyes fixed on nothing. Every part of you feels hollow, the adrenaline from the day long gone, replaced by exhaustion and the weight of everything you’ve just lived through.

Jenna glances at you from the driver’s seat, her hands steady on the wheel, concern softening her features. “Y/N… talk to me,” she says gently, breaking the silence.

You shake your head faintly, voice barely a whisper. “I… I can’t. Not right now.”

She slows the car at a red light, eyes never leaving the road. “Then don’t. You don’t have to. I’ll be here.”

And you shut down completely, curling slightly in the seat, letting the tears you’ve been holding back finally fall. Your chest heaves quietly. You’re numb, exhausted, scared and yet, she doesn’t try to fix you, doesn’t push. She just drives.

And somehow, that’s enough.

You make it home, the door clicking shut behind you like a punctuation mark on the chaos of the day.

Jenna hovers for a moment, concern etched on her face, but you shake your head, voice barely above a whisper.

“Can you… just give me a little space? I need to… process this alone.”

She nods, swallowing her worry. “Okay. I’ll be outside. Call me if you need me.”

Once the sound of her footsteps fades, you sink to the floor, knees drawn up, back pressed against the wall.

The apartment feels impossibly large, empty, echoing with all the memories you have of Gran Gran, the tiny lessons, the warmth, the constant encouragement.

And now she’s gone.

Tears spill freely, hot and unrelenting. You clutch yourself tight, letting your cold skin against your palm anchor you, but it does little to anchor the ache inside.

Your thoughts spiral, sharp and cruel.

Maybe if I hadn’t been so obsessed with work… if I had made time for her… if I’d let her live with me… maybe she’d still be here. Maybe I could’ve held onto the last person who ever truly loved me unconditionally.

The grief is suffocating, twisting your chest, leaving you gasping, broken. You’ve lost the last person who anchored your life, and for the first time in years, there’s nothing left to save you but yourself, if you can even manage that.

Your sobs fade into heavy, ragged breaths. Your hand wanders to your closet, pulling open the door almost mindlessly. Among the clutter, you find a small stash you’d hidden months ago, forgotten, untouched.

Your fingers tremble as you pull it out, the familiar weight in your hand oddly comforting. You roll, light, inhale, and let the smoke fill your lungs, the burn harsh but grounding.

For a moment, the ache dulls, replaced by a hazy warmth that blurs the edges of grief. You sink further into the corner, knees drawn tight, smoke curling around you like a fragile shield.

The pain doesn’t disappear, it waits, gnawing at the edges but for the first time in hours, you can breathe without collapsing completely.

You close your eyes, letting the haze envelop you, wishing you could make time reverse, wishing you could tell Gran Gran just one more time that you loved her, that you tried, that you would’ve been enough if only life had let you.

But all that’s left now is the smoke, the ache, and the quiet, suffocating void.

The smoke fills the room, thick and curling, and you let yourself sink deeper into the corner, body trembling from grief and the haze taking over. Your thoughts are scattered, fragmented — Gran Gran, Jenna, Megan, the past, the what-ifs — all colliding in a dizzying storm.

You laugh quietly at something only you hear, smoke clouding your vision, oblivious to the world outside your apartment. You’re high, the ache muted just enough to let your tears flow freely without thought.

Then, somewhere in the blur of your phone notifications, flashing lights you barely register, something hits. A viral post. A photo.

It’s from the night before SNL. You and Jenna, caught mid-conversation, her hand cupping your face, both of your eyes glassy, someone caught the fight you had with Jenna and framed it.

You don’t notice, but your feed is exploding. The comments, the retweets, the headlines: “Y/N Y/L/N is cheating again!” “The heartbreak scandal continues!” “From Smoke & Orange to scandals: Y/N can’t stay loyal.”

Megan’s phone buzzed incessantly, her thumb hovering over the notifications with a growing sense of dread. One post after another, each flashing the same photo: you and Jenna, frozen in a moment, her hand cupping your face, pain and tension caught in a frame.

Her stomach dropped. No… this can’t be real. She wouldn’t—she wouldn’t—

She scanned the comments, the headlines, the accusations, and her chest tightened with panic and anger. They’re calling her a cheater. Again.

She didn’t hesitate. Grabbing her coat, she told the Katseye girls she was heading out. “Something’s wrong. I need to check on her. I just know it’s a mistake, a misunderstanding.”

The city blurred past as she drove, each red light a heartbeat hammering in her chest.

She imagined you curled up, overwhelmed, high, grief-stricken, facing this storm alone and it made her hands clench the wheel tighter.

The knock on the door is firm, insistent. Megan’s voice calls out, steady but laced with worry. “Y/N… open up. We need to talk.”

You groan from the corner of your apartment, the smoke haze still heavy around you, your fingers sticky and trembling. “I… I don’t want you to see me like this,” you croak, voice barely recognizable. “Please… just go.”

The door bursts open anyway. Megan steps inside, eyes immediately scanning the chaos, the ashtray overflowing, the scattered papers, and most of all, you. High out of your mind, trembling against the wall, eyes glassy.

“You have to explain, Y/N,” she says softly, though her voice trembles with anger and hurt. “I need to know why you’re doing this… why you’re letting everything happen like this!”

“Stop, Meg—baby, please just go home.”

Her voice rises, shaky. “You’re smoking again. You stopped. You were good. Why?”

“Meg, please… go home.”

“No! I need you to talk to me!” Her voice cracks, a desperate edge cutting through.

“I don’t want you to see me like this, Meg.” Your voice breaks now too, raw and pleading. “I love you so fucking much that I can’t handle you seeing me like this… please, leave.”

“No.”

“Megan, go. I’m begging you. Go home.”

She takes a small step forward, tears burning her eyes. “No. I’m not leaving. Not like this. Not while you’re hurting like this.”

You shake your head violently, almost curling in on yourself, trying to hide the mess you’ve become. “I… I can’t… I can’t have the woman I love see me like this!”

And then—

The bedroom door opens.

Jenna walks out, a paper bag in her hand, completely unaware of the chaos she’s stepped into. “Hey rockstar, How you feeling” she says lightly, smiling until she sees Megan frozen in the doorway.

The air snaps.

Megan’s face drains of color, eyes darting between you and Jenna. “What Y/N…?” Her voice is barely a whisper. “They were right. I can’t believe it.”

“What—" You look up to see Jenna and Megan face to face, you could read her mind, as all the fake fucked up scenarios pile up in her "no, Meg, no, listen to Megan a misunderstanding—”

“Megan” Jenna cuts in quickly, stepping forward, panic in her voice. “I promise it’s nothing like that, Megan. Y/N—she’s going through something bad. Her gran—”

“I can’t… I can’t believe I fell for this. For you.” Megan’s voice is trembling now, anger and heartbreak tangled into one. “You are one hell of an actor Y/N...Cause you got me fooled”

You take a step toward her, reaching out, but she shakes her head, tears already spilling.

“I was really falling for you… Y/N.” A pause, her lip trembling. “You guys are perfect for each other.”

She turns and walks out before you can say another word and the sound of the door slamming feels like the final note in a song that was never meant to end this way.

The silence after Megan’s footsteps fades feels unbearable. The door closes, and all that’s left is the sound of your ragged breathing and the pounding in your skull.

You stand there for a moment, then crumble.

Jenna sets the lunch bag down, slowly walking toward you. “Y/N,” she says softly, voice breaking with worry. “Hey, breathe. Come on, sit down, okay?”

You shake your head, tears blurring your vision. “Why did she have to see that, Jen? Why couldn’t you just stay away?”

She flinches but doesn’t move. “I didn’t know, I swear. I was just trying to help—”

“Help?” You laugh sharp, bitter, cracked. “You showing up ruined everything! She thinks I— she thinks we—” Your words choke off as your breath hitches. “I love her, Jen.”

Jenna kneels beside you, eyes glossy. “Hey, hey… breathe. It’s gonna be okay. Please, just—”

“Stop saying that!” you shout, voice echoing off the walls. Then quieter, trembling, “Nothing’s okay anymore… She’s gone, Gran Gran’s gone, and now—” You press your hands against your face, shoulders shaking. “I ruin everything I touch.”

Jenna moves closer, carefully placing a hand on your arm. “You don’t ruin things, Y/N. You just— you break trying to hold too much.”

You look up at her then, eyes red and distant. “Please… just go.”

“Y/N—”

“Please.”

She hesitates, searching your face then nods slowly. “Okay,” she whispers, voice small. “I’ll go. But I’m coming back, Okay"

You don’t answer. You can’t.

The door shuts behind her, and the silence wraps around you again.

You stumble toward the couch, half dazed, half hollow. Your chest aches like your heart’s been scraped out, replaced with smoke. You grab what’s left of the weed from the table, hands trembling, and light it.

One hit. Two. Three. The world begins to blur, the walls melt into soft edges, and your body sinks into the cushions.

You close your eyes.

And then… nothing.

Just black.

The pounding at the door feels like it’s inside your skull. You groan, dragging yourself up from the couch, head splitting, throat dry. The room smells like smoke and regret.

“Hold on!” you rasp, stumbling over a shoe. You swing the door open and before you can blink, Lara storms in.

She’s furious. Eyes wild, jaw tight, coat half-zipped. “You promised me, Y/N!” she snaps, voice sharp enough to cut through the haze. “You said you loved her! That you wouldn’t hurt her!”

You blink, disoriented, trying to piece together what’s real. “Lara, I—”

“Don’t you Lara me,” she bites out, pacing, fists clenched. “Do you even know what she looked like when she came home? She couldn’t stop crying! Megan believed you, Y/N! She defended you every damn time people said you’d break her heart, and now—”

“I’m sorry,” you whisper.

Lara stops. Blinks at you like she didn’t hear right. “Sorry?” she repeats, disbelief twisting into anger. “That’s all you have to say?”

You swallow hard, voice breaking. “I don’t— I can’t—”

“Talk to me!” she shouts, slamming her hand against the table. “Say something! Yell! Lie! I don’t care—just say anything!”

Something inside you snaps.

“I lost my grandma!” you whispered, dejected, voice cracking on the word. “I lost her, Lara! She’s gone!”

Her expression falters.

You press your palms to your face, breath hitching as your voice raised, now shouting at her. “I got drunk, I got high, I fell apart and in the same fucking day I lost everyone I gave a shit about! My grandma’s dead, Megan’s gone, and I’m empty! So yeah, I’m sorry, alright? I’m sorry I broke everything again.”

The room goes still. The kind of stillness that makes the air feel heavy.

Lara’s shoulders drop, her anger fading into something softer, sadder. She takes a shaky breath. “Y/N…”

You sink to the floor, back against the couch, shaking your head. “Please… just go. I can’t do this right now.”

She stands there for a long moment, torn between fury and heartbreak, then quietly nods. “You need help, Y/N. Not smoke. Not silence. Help.”

You don’t look up. You just close your eyes as the door clicks shut behind her.

The apartment is quiet again, too quiet. Only your breathing fills it. And for the first time in years, you whisper to the empty room, “I don’t know how to fix this.”

You’re still sitting on the floor, head in your hands, when Lara sighs — long, tired, the kind that sounds like surrender. She walks back toward you, her voice softer this time.

“Hey,” she says quietly. “Look at me.”

You drag your eyes up, and she kneels down across from you. The anger in her face is gone — now it’s just worry. Real, raw worry.

“I know you’re hurting,” she says. “And I know losing her broke something in you. But Megan doesn’t deserve to be caught in the crossfire of your grief, Y/N. You love her, I know that, but love doesn’t fix everything if you’re burning yourself alive in the process.”

You exhale shakily, staring at the floor. “I didn’t mean for any of this to happen. I swear I didn’t. I just…” You trail off, unable to finish.

Lara nods slowly. “I know. But you’ve got to pull yourself out of this. For her. For yourself. She still cares about you, even if she’s too hurt to admit it.”

You wipe your eyes with the back of your sleeve, voice breaking. “I just wish I could make it all stop.”

Lara stands, brushing off her jeans. “Then start by facing it. Stop hiding. Stop letting the media write your story.”

Your phone buzzes on the table. Both of you turn toward it. The screen lights up, Jenna Ortega, Twitter trending at the top of the notification bar.

Lara reaches for the phone first and frowns, then hands it to you.

The post is everywhere already, a screenshot of Jenna’s official statement:

“There’s been a lot of speculation online. The internet has this ability to crop images to push a certain narrative, and I would like remind everyone that what you see on the internet is only a small percent of the truth. And to clarify Y/N and I are not together. We’ve been through a lot, and I’ll always wish her the best. Please remember to respect people’s boundaries and private lives. The internet doesn’t know everything.”

The caption underneath from the official press account reads: “Jenna Ortega sets the record straight amid viral photos.”

You stare at the glowing screen for a long time, numb.

“She’s trying to protect you,” Lara murmurs.

You nod slowly, setting the phone down on the table. “Yeah. But somehow, it still feels like I lost again.”

Lara doesn’t argue. She just sits beside you, silent.

The clock on the wall ticked, too loud. Outside, traffic murmured somewhere far below, muffled by the city.

Lara finally spoke, voice soft and low. “You know,” she said, “for what it’s worth… I don’t think Megan hates you...well if she gets the full story”

You let out a small, humorless laugh. “She should.”

“She won’t,” Lara said. “That’s the problem.”

You leaned your head back against the wall, eyes unfocused. “I don’t even know what to do anymore, Lara."

You shook your head, the words barely a whisper. “I don’t even know who I am without all of this noise.”

Lara turned to you fully, eyes softening. “Then maybe that’s the point,” she said. “Maybe you finally get to find out.”

our throat tightened. The air felt heavy, thick, like it didn’t want to move through your lungs. You looked down at your shaking hands.

“I need her with me…” you whispered, voice cracking. “I can’t go through this alone, Lara.”

Lara’s eyes shimmered, but she didn’t look away. She just sighed softly, shifting closer until her shoulder brushed yours. “I know,” she murmured. “But sometimes the people we need the most… they’re the ones we have to let go of, just for a while.”

You shook your head weakly, tears threatening. “I can’t. I already lost Gran Gran. I can’t lose Megan too.”

She hesitated, searching your face for something she could hold onto. “Then fight for her,” she said finally. “But not like this. Not when you’re breaking yourself apart to do it. She deserves you whole, Y/N.”

You swallowed hard, a tear slipping down your cheek before you could stop it. “I don’t think I know how to be whole anymore.”

Lara sighed again, this time quieter. “Then we start there.”

She leaned back against the wall beside you, close enough for you to feel her warmth, but not too close to suffocate. The two of you just sat there, surrounded by the dim hum of the apartment, the faint sound of the city bleeding through the window.

And for the first time in days, you let yourself cry not from guilt, or anger, or exhaustion. Just grief.

Raw, aching grief.

And Lara stayed. She didn’t speak. She didn’t try to fix it.

She just stayed.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The next morning, the world felt quieter, too quiet. The kind of silence that followed devastation, where even the city seemed to hold its breath.

You sat in the lobby of your label’s headquarters, hoodie up, sunglasses hiding the red around your eyes. Lara sat beside you, her presence steady but unintrusive. Neither of you spoke. The hum of printers, the muted footsteps, the buzz of phones, it all felt miles away.

When your manager, finally stepped out of her office, her face fell the moment she saw you. “Y/N…” she started softly, gesturing you both inside.

You sat down across from her, fingers twisting together, your voice trembling but sure. “I need time off,” you said, eyes fixed on the table. “I—I lost my grandma.”

Her expression softened immediately. “Oh, Y/N, I’m so sorry. Take as much time as you need. We’ll handle—”

You interrupted quietly, “No. I mean… I need a real break. Not a week. Not a month. I can’t do the shows, or the interviews, or the promo. Not like this.”

She blinked, surprised. “You mean… cancel the Smoke & Orange tour?”

You nodded slowly. “Everything. All concerts, appearances, promo—it’s over for now. I’ll pay back whatever I need to. I just can’t… not right now.”

Lara leaned forward, steadying you with her voice. “Y/N needs space to breathe. She’s been through too much.”

She exhaled, rubbing her temples. “Okay. We can put out an official statement, say it’s due to personal loss. The label will handle refunds and ticket holders. I’ll make sure the fans know you appreciate them.”

You nodded again, voice barely above a whisper. “Please also mention the album. Say Smoke & Orange promo is discontinued. I don’t want people thinking it’s for attention or drama. Just tell them… I need time to heal.”

She gave you a long look, her tone softening. “You don’t owe anyone an explanation, Y/N. But… I’ll make sure the message is respectful.”

You managed a faint nod of gratitude. “Thank you.”

As you stood to leave, Lara’s hand brushed your shoulder. You looked at her, the exhaustion clear in both your eyes.

Outside, the morning light hit your face, but it didn’t feel warm. The city moved on, loud and relentless, but you were somewhere else, adrift, empty, and trying to find what pieces of yourself were left.

The label’s statement went out an hour later:

Due to a recent personal loss, Y/N will be stepping away from music and public appearances indefinitely. All remaining concerts and promotional events for “Smoke & Orange” have been canceled. Refunds will be issued automatically. We ask for understanding and privacy during this time.

You read it once on your phone screen, then turned it off.

For the first time in years, there was nothing scheduled. Nothing expected. Nothing but silence.

Later that day, You and Lara drove up to gran-gran's house.

You and Lara drove in silence for most of the way.

The hum of the highway filled the car, and neither of you dared to break it. The air between you was heavy, not uncomfortable, but thick with the weight of what waited at the end of the road.

Gran Gran’s house stood just as you remembered it, warm beige siding, overgrown roses creeping along the fence, and the faint sound of wind chimes that hadn’t stopped singing even after she was gone.

When you stepped inside, it hit you all at once.

Her scent. The faint perfume mixed with the smell of old books and lemon polish. Her slippers still by the door. A mug on the counter, half-washed. It felt wrong, like she was still here, just in the next room, humming to herself.

Lara set her bag down gently. “Take your time,” she whispered.

You nodded numbly, making your way to the living room. Every inch of the place told a story, photos of you as a kid framed on the wall, your first guitar resting against the cabinet, still missing the same E string you’d broken when you were six.

“She kept everything,” Lara murmured, crouching beside a stack of photo albums. She opened one, smiling faintly. “You were such a tiny rockstar.”

You chuckled weakly. “She used to tell me I was gonna play with Billy Joel one day.”

Hours passed as the two of you worked quietly, packing clothes into boxes, wiping down shelves, sorting through keepsakes. The radio played softly in the background, the same station Gran Gran used to listen to every morning.

In her bedroom, you found a small chest tucked beneath her bed. Inside were old letters, photos, and a few crumpled sheets of paper, lyrics you’d written as a teenager. Some with tear stains, others with her handwriting in the margins.

One note stood out. Her writing, neat but shaky:

If the world ever gets too heavy, play something, sweetheart. Music always brings you home.

You sat on the bed, clutching the paper to your chest. Tears welled up, uninvited but unstoppable this time. Lara sat beside you, her arm looping around your shoulders as you finally let yourself cry.

When the tears slowed, you whispered, “She always believed in me, even when I didn’t.”

Lara smiled softly. “She still does. You can feel it in this house.”

You nodded, looking around at the soft light filtering through the lace curtains. “Yeah… I can.”

As dusk settled, you both stood in the living room, surrounded by boxes. You looked at Lara, your voice quiet. “I think… I’ll keep this place. Fix it up. Maybe write here for a while.”

Lara nodded approvingly. “It’s what she’d want.”

You walked outside, sitting on the porch, the same creaky wooden steps you used to sit on as a kid, the last rays of sun brushing over the yard. The air smelled faintly of rain and lilac. You had Gran Gran’s guitar in your lap, the one with the faded sticker that read “Keep Playing” and your fingers absentmindedly plucked at the strings.

For the first time in days, it was quiet. Not the kind of quiet that hurt, but the kind that let you breathe.

Inside, Lara was organizing boxes in the living room when her phone started buzzing on the counter. She glanced at the screen — Megan.

Her breath hitched. She hesitated, looking toward the door where you sat, silhouetted against the fading light, then answered.

You barely registered it at first; the sound of her voice filtered faintly through the open window. But then the tone sharpened.

“Lara? Where the hell are you?” Megan’s voice was sharp, shaky with anger.

Lara took a breath. “I’m with Y/N.”

There was a long pause, then Megan snapped, “You’re what? You’re with your best friend’s girlfriend? The same one who cheated on me?”

Lara winced. “Meg, stop. It’s not like that.”

“Not like that?” Megan’s voice cracked through the line. “Do you have any idea how that sounds? How it looks?”

“She didn’t cheat,” Lara said firmly, voice low but steady. “She didn’t. Everything online it’s taken out of context. She lost her grandma, Megan. She’s falling apart right now. I’m just making sure she doesn’t completely break.”

There was silence on the other end for a few seconds, the kind that felt like a held breath.

Finally, Megan muttered, “So… she really didn’t…?”

“No,” Lara said. “You saw the photos and assumed the worst. She was high, grieving, not thinking straight, and Jenna was helping her. That’s it. I wouldn’t be here if it was anything else.”

Megan’s voice softened but stayed wary. “Then why didn’t she tell me that?”

“Because she thinks she lost you,” Lara said quietly. “And honestly… right now, she kind of has. But she still loves you, Meg. She’s just… broken.”

The other end went silent again. You could hear only the faint sound of Megan breathing through tears.

Finally, she whispered, “Tell her I need time.”

“I will,” Lara said gently. “But don’t shut her out forever, okay? She needs someone who believes in her right now.”

When Lara hung up and stepped back inside, her expression was soft but tired. You looked up at her, still holding the photo.

“Everything okay?” you asked.

She nodded slowly. “Yeah,” she said. “That was Megan.”

You froze, searching her face for an answer.

“She just… needs time,” Lara said quietly. “But she’s listening now.”

"I get it"

----

You stayed. Days turned into weeks, and the world outside blurred into something you didn’t need to understand anymore.

The house was too quiet at first, every creak of the floorboards, every hum of the old refrigerator felt like a ghost whispering her name. But slowly, you began to move. You fixed the leaky faucet. You swept the porch. You replaced the broken light in the hallway. You opened every window and let the air breathe again.

Each little thing felt like glue, patching up something in you that had long been cracked.

Her guitar sat by the window. Dust gathered on the fretboard. You didn’t touch it for a long time. But one morning, sunlight fell across it just right and something in you gave. You sat down, fingers trembling, and strummed. The first sound was awful, dissonant, painful. But you kept going.

And then it wasn’t awful. It was just… honest.

You started writing again. Not about love, or fame, or heartbreak but about stillness. About the ache that teaches you how to breathe again. About her laugh echoing through the walls.

Lara visited once every few days, bringing groceries, making sure you ate. Sometimes she’d find you asleep on the couch with your notebook open and ink smudged on your hand. Other times, she’d catch you outside, barefoot in the grass, head tilted toward the stars like you were listening for her voice.

You weren’t healed, not yet. But you were learning how to exist in the quiet without breaking.

And one night, with the old record player spinning Piano Man, you said softly into the still air:

“Gran Gran… I’m still here. I’m trying.”

A month had passed since the retreat.

The ocean air still lingered on your clothes, salt woven into the fabric of your hoodie. You hadn’t told anyone you were coming back, not your manager, not the label, not even Lara. You just… showed up.

L.A. felt different now. Louder. Brighter. But you were invisible in it, hood up, sunglasses on, head down. You slipped through the studio’s back entrance like a ghost, nodding to the night guard who barely recognized you.

The room was cold, sterile, but familiar. You ran your fingers along the console, the faded tape labels, the old mic you’d sworn never to touch again. And then you exhaled long, shaky, final and stepped into the booth.

You didn’t write this one. You didn’t have to. You just needed to sing it.

🎵 “And through it all, she offers me protection…”

Your voice cracked on the first line. You almost stopped. But you didn’t. You sang until your throat burned and your heart stopped fighting the melody. Each note felt like a confession, to Gran Gran, to yourself, to all the things you’d never get to say.

By the final chorus, you weren’t Y/N the artist, or Y/N the scandal. You were just a girl, singing to the person who believed in her before anyone else did.

The track ended. Silence filled the room, heavy and infinite. Then the engineer who had been silently watching behind the glass pressed the intercom button.

“Was that… a one-take?”

You wiped your eyes with the sleeve of your hoodie and nodded.

“Yeah,” you whispered. “That’s all I had to say.”

The EP went live at midnight, quietly, as if it had been waiting for this exact moment. Five songs. Five pieces of your heart scattered across the digital air:

You didn’t tell anyone. Not your manager, not the label, not the press, no one.

EP- Unfilter ME

Piano Man (Cover)

Fix You

Chasing Cars

Angels

Reasons Why – an interlude of a voicemail left years ago, now looping between songs. Her voice just raw and real.

You didn’t promote it. You didn’t post it. It was just there, waiting for whoever needed it.

The city slept, but in bedrooms and earbuds across the world, people stumbled upon it. Some recognized the voice, some recognized the pain, and some just felt… everything.

You sat on the edge of your bed in Gran Gran’s house, hoodie pulled tight around you, fingers tapping the coffee mug beside you. The small speakers played the EP on repeat. You closed your eyes and let the music roll over you, the weight of the last months lifting slightly with every note.

---

The morning light seeped through the blinds, soft and indifferent, but outside your window, the world was anything but.

Notifications exploded across your phone, hundreds, thousands, a relentless cascade of alerts.

The EP you had quietly released was no longer quiet. Screens everywhere lit up with headlines: “Y/N Y/L/N Breaks Silence with Emotional Secret EP”, “The Truth Behind the Smoke & Orange Drama”, “Songs dedicated to her lost: The Heartbreak We Never Knew”.

You didn’t move. You didn’t even breathe. The phone vibrated in your hand like a pulse you couldn’t control.

Comments poured in, some loving, some cruel. Fans praising the honesty, media scrambling to dissect every lyric, every note, every tear-stained line in your interlude. The narrative they’d been spinning for months, the cheating, the scandals, the “golden girl” drama, unraveled faster than it had ever built.

For the first time in a long time, the story wasn’t theirs. It was yours.

You leaned back against the couch, hoodie up, sunglasses still on despite the empty room, and let the weight of it wash over you. Every beat of your chest echoed with anger, grief, and defiance.

And somewhere, in the middle of the chaos, a quiet smile formed. You had finally said it. You had finally sung it.

And the world could finally hear you.

Megan’s phone buzzed incessantly, notifications stacking higher than she could count. At first, she ignored them, thinking it was just fan chatter or social media noise. But when she finally looked, her chest tightened.

The headlines hit her like a wave: “Y/N Y/L/N Drops Secret EP: Gran Gran’s Songs Reveal Hidden Heartbreak”, “The Truth Behind Smoke & Orange — Y/N’s Unfiltered Confessions”, “Angels, Piano Man, Fix You — The EP Everyone is Talking About”.

Her fingers hovered over the screen. She wanted to call, to text, to crash into your life and ask you everything, why you hadn’t told her, why you went through this alone, why she wasn’t there. But she didn’t.

For months, your words haunted her. It replayed in her head

"I love you so much… I can’t let you see me like this… please, just go." "I… I can’t… I can’t let the woman I love see me like this!"

She had never imagined you would admit it so raw, so desperate. Saying you love her on your knees, broken, as you begged her to leave. The vulnerability, the ache in your voice, lingered in her mind like a ghost she couldn’t shake.

But a part of her knew. She had known for months. Your grief, your silence, your fear of letting anyone see the broken pieces. And now, seeing it splashed across the world, she understood the depth of it in a way she hadn’t before.

She sank into the couch, staring at the ceiling, heart pounding with love and worry. She wanted to reach out, wanted to wrap her arms around you, wanted to tell you you didn’t have to carry it alone.

But she stayed silent.

Because some things, she realized, you had to do alone.

But somedays she would picture you there, broken and desperate, and it tore her apart.

But still the idea of you alone, drowning in pain, while she had been waiting, unable to reach you. She wanted to run to you, to hold you, to make the world vanish around the two of you. But she didn’t.

Instead, she swallowed the ache, letting it settle deep in her chest. She understood now that some battles you had to fight on your own, some grief you had to bear alone. And if rushing in would only make it worse, she would wait.

Forever.

No matter how long it took, no matter how far apart life pushed them, she would wait for you. Because love like hers, patient, unwavering, stubborn, didn’t give up.

And somewhere deep down, she knew that one day, when you were ready, you would come back.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

You were slowly stitching yourself back together, not perfectly, not cleanly, but enough to stand. Enough to breathe. Enough to try.

Nights in Gran Gran’s house turned into quiet mornings in LA, and little by little, you crawled out of the darkness. You stopped checking your phone. You stopped searching your name. You let yourself disappear.

And then, one night, almost on impulse, you walked into a dim, dusty bar in Silver Lake. A handwritten sign read Open Mic Tonight. Your heart pounded. But you went in.

Black hoodie. Oversized sunglasses. Head down. Anonymous. Hidden. Safe.

You whispered your name to the host, a fake one and when they called you up, you sat behind the keyboard and performed your new songs (Angles)1.

Your voice trembled at first. But by the time you reached the chorus, something cracked open — grief, love, memory and the room went still.

Someone recorded it. Of course they did.

By morning, the video was everywhere on TikTok: “mystery singer at Silver Lake open mic sounds like a literal angel.” “WHO IS THIS???” “Is this Y/N??? No way.”

But you stayed underground. Every few nights, a different dive bar. A different open mic. Always the same hoodie, the same dark glasses.

You weren’t ready to come back. Not to the world. Not to fame. Not to her.

But you were ready to sing again.

And that was something.

It happened faster than you ever expected.

One open mic became five. Five became ten. And every single time, someone posted a shaky 20-second clip: your hands on the piano, your voice breaking, that black hoodie pulled low.

And the world hungry, obsessive, restless, began to put the pieces together.

“Mysterious singer in LA dive bars = Y/N?” “The voice, the phrasing… it’s too similar.” “Is Smoke & Orange era over? Are we in the ‘underground’ era now?” “She looks taller in the TikTok but idk 🤔”

Some dismissed it. Some swore it was you. Some started comparing waveforms from your past live vocals to these new clips.

Then the media caught wind.

Rolling Stone: “Fans believe global star Y/N is performing unannounced open mics around LA. If true, this marks the first public musical appearance since the retreat.”

Variety: “Which dive bar will she appear in next? Crowds now rotate through Silver Lake venues hoping for a glimpse.”

BuzzFeed: “The hoodie. The sunglasses. The voice. If it’s not Y/N… then someone cloned her.”

Suddenly, the scene became surreal.

Bars you performed at one week suddenly had lines out the door the next. People camping outside with posters, phones ready. Bartenders whispering to each other the moment a hooded figure walked in.

Clubs posting IG stories like: “Maybe she’ll show up tonight 😉🎤”

A few times, you walked up to the door, saw the crowd, the security, the eager fans and turned around. You weren’t ready to be found. Not yet.

But the world had made a game out of you:

Which dive bar next? Will she perform tonight? Where will the angel land?

And somewhere across the world, Megan was watching the same clips everyone else was.

The studio was bright, mirrors fogged with heat, music pulsing low as Megan moved through choreography for their upcoming tour. Staying behind to grain the choreo into her muscle

Megan was catching her breath between run-throughs, water bottle in hand, when her phone buzzed violently in her pocket.

Sophia calling. During practice. Weird.

Megan frowned, wiping sweat from her cheek before sliding her thumb across the screen.

“Yeah? Soph, what’s—”

“Meg, you need to see this.” Sophia’s voice was breathless, like she had run to the hallway just to call.

Megan straightened instinctively. “What? Did something happen?”

“Just—look at your phone. Now.”

The call ended.

Megan blinked, confused, and unlocked her phone. Her notifications were overflowing, Twitter, TikTok, Instagram posts blowing up all at once. Thousands of notifications muted into a blur.

At the top of them all was the video Sophia sent.

A dim dive bar. Blue stage light. A hooded figure sitting at a piano. Head bowed, hands trembling slightly.

Then the voice.

Your voice.

Raw. Ache-filled. Unmistakable.

You were singing Call It What You Want. The same version Megan had replayed a thousand times since your EP dropped. Except this time… she could hear you breathing. Hear the pain. Hear the healing trying to form.

"All my flowers grew back as thorns / Windows boarded up after the storm / she built a fire just to keep me warm" "She built a fire just to keep me warm / All the drama queens taking swings / All the jokers dressing up as kings / They fade to nothing when I look at her"

Megan’s lips parted. Her chest tightened.

“Meg?” Yoonchae called from across the room. “Everything okay?”

But Megan barely heard her. She was staring at the screen, heart thudding.

Because the comments under the video said it all:

“It’s her. 100%.” “Y/N is back in LA.” “She’s performing in dive bars again???” “The song sounds… happier? Like she’s getting better.” “Whoever she sang this for is lucky as hell.”

And the strangest part? Megan hadn’t seen you in months. Hadn’t heard your voice. Hadn’t touched you.

But watching the video… she somehow knew.

You weren’t running anymore. You weren’t drowning.

You were coming back to life.

Sophia called again, popping up on Megan’s screen.

Megan answered immediately, trying to keep her voice steady. “Soph… what is this?”

Sophia hesitated, unusually gentle. “Meg… she’s healing. And she’s doing it alone.”

Megan swallowed hard, eyes glossy. “I know.”

“You should talk to her.”

But Megan shook her head, even though Sophia couldn’t see it.

“Not yet,” she whispered. “Not until she’s ready.”

For a moment, the studio noise faded, the mirrors, the dancers, the music everything blurring around her.

But in Megan’s chest, hope began to glow again.

Softly. Quietly. Dangerously.

Because for the first time in months…

It sounded like you were singing your way back to her.

Months passed, and the world moved on in ways Megan and you didn’t.

Katseye launched their world tour, neon lights, roaring crowds, choreography sharp enough to slice the air. They were everywhere. Billboards. Interviews. TikTok trends. Fan cams.

And you?

You were everywhere too…just not where she could see you. Spending every penny in your name, just to book all the tickets and watch her in her moment. Remembering the days you could call her yours.

You kept your head down. Black hoodie. Silent.

But somehow, fans kept catching you.

Clips began surfacing online, shaky zoomed-in videos, grainy phone footage taken from nosebleed seats:

“I SWEAR THAT’S Y/N IN SECTION 112???” “Wait the hoodie girl looks exactly like her…” “No cause why is she LOOKING at Megan like that 😭😭”

And the clips…

God, the clips.

One from Tokyo: Megan onstage, drenched in blue light, singing the bridge of their new ballad. She smiled, that soft, shy smile that used to make your chest warm.

The camera panned. There you were, hood up, hands clasped tightly in your lap, staring at her with a look that was—

Sad. Soft. Destroyed. Hopeful.

Every emption warped into one.

Someone whispered behind the camera, “She’s literally in love with her.”

Another clip from Berlin: Megan dancing during the second chorus, hair whipping, laughter bright. You stood hidden near the sound booth, shoulders slumped, mouth pressed into a line, the faintest smile tugging but never fully forming.

Like you were happy for her. And heartbroken by her. All at once.

A third clip from LA, the one that went viral:

Megan hit her high note, voice cracking exactly the way it used to in late-night studio sessions with you.

The camera zoomed on you in the crowd.

You didn’t clap. You didn’t cheer.

You just stared.

Eyes shining. Smile trembling. Like she was a star you wished you could touch but didn’t dare approach.

Comments flooded in:

“This is some enemies-to-lovers-to-strangers-to-soulmates shit.” “The longing is INSANE.” “Why are they making me cry they aren’t even dating 😭” “She looks proud of Megan 😭 but like she thinks she’s not allowed to be near her anymore.” "When you show up to the yearning competition and this is what you are against"

One fan even stitched the videos together, titling it:

“A love story told in stolen glances.”

You didn’t comment. Didn’t like it. Didn’t share it.

But you watched it. Over and over. Alone.

Because every night of that tour, you slipped into the shadows of another arena, just to watch her be brilliant.

Just to see the woman you loved shine. Even if she wasn’t shining for you.

Even if all you could do… was smile sadly from the dark.

LA. The final show. Katseye’s biggest stage yet. The air backstage buzzed with adrenaline, crew shouting cues, stylists rushing with hairspray, dancers stretching against the walls, neon lights flickering with every bass pulse from the arena.

You shouldn’t have been there.

Nobody knew you were coming. Not even Lara.

But you pulled every string you had left, old favors, quiet calls, someone from lighting who still owed you a miracle until a single laminated pass hung from your neck.

BACKSTAGE – ALL ACCESS

Your hands shook the entire walk down the corridor.

Not from nerves. Not from fear.

From the unbearable weight of months of silence…and love.

You kept your hood up, sunglasses hiding your eyes, trying to blend with the moving bodies around you, stagehands, managers, stylists.

Your heart thrashed when you turned a corner and saw them.

Katseye. All five.

Coming back from the stage, wrapping up their biggest performance yet, laughing and exhausted.

Megan was in the middle.

Hair tied up. Makeup slightly smudged. Skin glowing with adrenaline and sweat. Her smile—god, that smile—lit up the entire hallway.

You stopped walking. Completely froze.

Someone bumped into your shoulder, muttered a quick apology, kept going.

But you didn’t hear it.

Because she turned. Just a small tilt of her head and her world stopped too.

Her laughter died in her throat. The mic slipped from her hand, clattering loudly against the floor.

Her breath hitched like she’d been punched.

“Y/N…?” she whispered.

The other girls froze mid-step, gasping, hands flying to their mouths.

But Megan…Megan didn’t move at first.

She just stared at you.

Like she didn’t believe you were real. Like you might vanish if she blinked.

Then her eyes reddened. Her chest lifted in a sharp breath. And a single tear slid down her cheek.

Followed by another. And another.

You lowered your hood slowly.

Your sunglasses.

Your trembling hands.

And the second your bare face was visible—

Megan broke.

She let out a choked, helpless sob and covered her mouth with both hands, shoulders shaking. Lara whispered “holy shit” under her breath, eyes filling too.

You took one step forward.

She took two.

Then you were standing across from each other in the center of the hallway frozen, barely breathing, the whole backstage watching like they’d witnessed a scene from a movie they didn’t know they’d bought tickets for.

Megan’s voice cracked as she whispered:

“…You came back.”

🏷️

The gym smells like freshly polished floors and too many nervous freshmen crammed onto the bleachers. From the stage, the sea of faces stretches endlessly, friends waving, teachers smiling politely, a couple of kids already trying to sneak looks at their phones.

Beside me, Principal Evans finishes his welcome with the kind of gravitas that only thirty years in education can build, then gestures for me to step forward.

I walk onto the stage, head high. My pulse is steady. I’ve done this before. I’m the student body president, straight-A, the gold standard around here in Atlanta.

I grip the podium, lean toward the microphone, and smile.

“Good morning, everyone. First off, congratulations you’ve survived summer break with minimal sunburns and, hopefully, without losing your student ID. If you did, well… the replacement fee is cheaper than therapy, so you’ll be fine.”

A ripple of laughter, a few cheers. They like me. They always do.

I let the moment breathe before continuing. “I would to welcome back returning students and welcome new facility and new students into our campus. This year isn’t just about grades, trophies, or status. It’s about us. About what kind of school we want to build together. And trust me, if last year was any indication, we’ve barely scratched the surface. So let’s make this year count. Let’s make it one worth remembering.”

The gym erupts with cheers. I bow slightly, hand off the microphone, and step down from the stage, heart still thrumming with adrenaline. As I make my way back through the rows, students clap me on the shoulder, whispering “Nice one” or flashing me a grin.

Sliding onto the bleacher bench beside Yoonchae and Sophia, I exhale, finally letting my smile turn crooked and unguarded. Yoonchae nudges me with her elbow, whispering, “Show-off,” while Sophia just shakes her head, fighting a laugh.

Yeah. This year’s off to a good start.

Walking to class was no different, people calling my name for small talk, anything for a second of my attention. I wasn’t going to lie, people wanted it. Not because I was some kind of celebrity, though half the school acted like I was, but because I made them feel seen. That was my superpower, really: the perfect mix of charm, grades, and accessibility.

“Hey, Y/N!” a freshman yelled from across the hall. I waved, flashing my practiced grin.

“Morning!” I called back, my backpack swinging lazily over one shoulder.

Sophia fell into step beside me, rolling her eyes at my mini parade of admirers. “You do realize it’s literally the same people every day, right? They don’t care about you. They care about being seen talking to you.”

I shrugged, grinning. “Maybe. But hey, if they get a little confidence boost from me, why not?”

Yoonchae joined us from the side, balancing a stack of books. “Confidence boost, huh? You’re basically a walking TED Talk.”

“Exactly,” I said, puffing up my chest just a little. “And today’s lecture? Advanced charm and world domination, courtesy of yours truly.”

The bell finally rang, dragging everyone toward their first class. I navigated the crowded hallway like I owned it smiles, nods, a few quick high-fives and slipped into AP Biology just as the teacher was taking attendance.

There, in our usual corner, sat James. Best seat in the room, best backpack placement, best posture, you could tell he’d been here first. I slid into the desk beside him, dropping my bag with a thud.

“Morning,” I said, tossing him a grin.

“Morning,” he replied, eyes lighting up in a way I didn’t think twice about. Honestly, James had always been just… James. My best friend. Reliable, smart, sarcastic at all the right moments. Nothing more.

I leaned back, pulling out my notebook. “So, you ready for another thrilling year of biology?”

“Thrilling as ever,” he muttered, but I caught the tiny smirk tugging at his lips. That smirk, the one he reserved for me and was too familiar, too comfortable. And yet, I shrugged it off, assuming he was just being his usual James-self.

As the teacher started the lesson, I noticed him glancing at me every few minutes, glancing at me then scribbling notes with focused precision, oblivious to the fact that while I thought we were just two best friends tackling the same assignments.

James had been my best friend since we were five, growing up in the same neighborhood. We’d bonded instantly over scraped knees, comic books, and who could climb the highest tree. Back then, he’d been pudgy, round-faced, and wore those giant, taped-together glasses that made him look like a walking science experiment.

But summer had done something… dramatic. I blinked at him now, taking in the new version of James sitting beside me. The glasses were gone, replaced by a jawline sharp enough to cut glass. His hair had grown into that effortlessly messy style that somehow looked perfect, and those V-tapered shoulders were new, and they made his hoodie look sculpted.

I shook my head, trying not to stare too obviously. “Wow,” I muttered under my breath. “Summer agrees with you.”

He smirked without looking at me, already used to me being clueless. “Yeah, apparently puberty doesn’t need permission,” he said, his voice teasing but casual, like nothing had changed.

Just as I was about to focus on the lesson, the door burst open. Daniela. Of course.

She breezed in, hair perfect as always, a cheeky grin already in place. “Sorry I’m late, Mrs. Tate,” she said, voice sweet but laced with that familiar mischief. She dropped her backpack with exaggerated care and, without missing a beat, leaned into me as she passed to take her seat.

“Wow, look who it is,” she murmured in that sing-song tone that had haunted me since forever. “Mrs Perfect Student Body President, sitting all smug like you own the place.”

I froze for a second, trying to maintain my composure while her shoulder brushed mine. My face probably betrayed more than I intended, because she laughed softly, a sound that was equal parts triumphant and teasing.

James shot me a look from the corner of his desk half amusement, half warning but I just rolled my eyes, leaning slightly away. “Morning, Daniela,” I said, voice neutral, trying to act like she wasn’t the single biggest thorn in my side since kindergarten.

“Oh, don’t be like that,” she whispered, smirking, eyes sparkling. “It’s just a little hello. You know I like keeping you on your toes.”

I clenched my jaw, already anticipating the rest of the day. Some things never change.

Mrs. Tate finally cleared her throat, signaling the start of class, but I barely heard her over the internal war raging beside me. Daniela was still leaning just a little too close, that infuriating grin plastered across her face.

“So, still trying to be everyone’s favorite?” she whispered, flicking her pen so it rolled dangerously close to my notebook. “I mean, you’ve got the title, but do you really need to try that hard?"

I shot her a look sharp enough to cut glass. “Better than the way you treat everyone” I muttered, careful not to raise my voice and draw attention.

“Aw, is little Y/N getting feisty?” she teased, leaning back with a laugh, clearly enjoying herself.

I was about to fire back when I felt a gentle nudge on my arm. James. He slid his hand lightly against mine, as if to remind me I wasn’t entirely trapped by her. I glanced at him; his eyes were twinkling, that quiet, almost imperceptible “I’ve got your back” look. My chest warmed.

Dani noticed. “What’s this?” she asked, narrowing her eyes. “Really James, trying to make friends while I talk to you? Cute.”

James leaned closer, whispering just loud enough for me to hear, “Ditto ignore her. You’re doing great.”

I smirked, feeling a tiny surge of gratitude and maybe something else I didn’t quite recognize while Daniela’s triumphant smirk faltered just a bit.

As the class progressed I kept my eyes on my own work, forcing myself to concentrate on the mitochondria diagrams sprawled across the page. But my focus shattered when I noticed James leaning across a desk, laughing with some girl I didn’t recognize.

Her phone was out, and before I could blink, he was scribbling something on a slip of paper and sliding it into her hand. She smiled, a little too bright, and he grinned back, that same easy charm that always made people lean in. Then, just like that, he slipped her number into her phone, and she slipped it back into her bag with a secretive little laugh.

I couldn’t help the small, wry smile tugging at my lips as I watched him, still leaning casually against his desk, the girl’s laughter hanging in the air like music. Finally, the little nerd had scored himself a date. The newfound confidence was clearly doing wonders.

Class finally ended, and the hallway erupted with the usual chaos. James and I slipped out together, heading toward the empty courtyard for our free period. Normally, I would’ve been looking forward to this quiet, easy, just the two of us but today, my brain was stuck on one person: Daniela.

James was walking a little too close, trying to catch my eye with that half-smile he reserved for “special moments,” whatever he thought those were.

“So… uh,” he began, scratching the back of his neck like it was the most nerve-wracking thing in the world. “Do you, uh… want to maybe grab lunch together later? I mean, just the two of us, you know?”

I blinked at him, unimpressed. “Uh, yeah… maybe.”

His smile widened, but he didn’t notice my lack of enthusiasm. “Cool. Cool. I thought maybe we could, you know, try that new café near—”

I zoned out instantly, my mind wandering back to Daniela’s smirk in Bio, the way she leaned in, the little flick of her pen meant just to annoy me. I scowled internally. Why did she always have to show up everywhere, ruining my perfect little world?

James kept talking, oblivious to the storm inside my head. “Or, we could just, like, hang here. I brought some snacks… if that’s cool…”

I smiled faintly, barely acknowledging him, letting him talk while my thoughts stayed fixated on the queen of chaos herself.

James was adorable, with his constant talking but right now it couldn’t compete with the mental replay of Daniela leaning in, her eyes sparkling with mischief, and that subtle, infuriating way she always got under my skin.

Sometimes, I wondered if I would ever see James as more than my best friend. But right now? My attention wasn’t even in the same zip code.

“So… future plans,” he said, kicking off his shoes, like he didn’t care about looking a little ridiculous. “You know, beyond being Student Body President forever and totally running this school.”

I laughed, shaking my head. “Yeah, no pressure there. What about you?”

He hesitated for a second, then shrugged. “I’m… trying for Harvard too.” His voice was quieter now, like he wasn’t sure how I’d take it. “Figured… maybe we could be there together. Not that I’m comparing or anything. I mean, you’re clearly gonna get in.”

I blinked at him, suddenly noticing the awkward way he was fidgeting with his sleeves. “Wait, seriously? Harvard?”

“Yeah,” he said, finally looking up at me, his eyes full of that earnest intensity that always made it hard to stay annoyed at him. “I mean, it’s a long shot, but… you know, someone’s gotta try, right?”

I shrugged, trying to act casual. “Good for you, man. You’d probably crush it. Honestly, I’m not worried about you.”

He smiled faintly, but I could tell he wanted more than that. Maybe he wanted me to care a little. I should’ve, I guess. But my mind kept drifting back to Daniela

James glanced at me again, and I swear I caught a flicker of something...hope, maybe disappointment. But I just nodded, half-listening, half-lost in thoughts about my arch-nemesis.

James leaned back on his elbows, glancing at me with that familiar nervous energy. “Hey… uh, what if we did a study session later? My place. Harvard prep. You know… focused, just the two of us. Could be fun.”

I raised an eyebrow but didn’t hesitate. “Sure. Sounds good.”

He smiled, that shy, awkward grin that always made me forget to roll my eyes. “Great!”

Just as I started to relax, thinking maybe this could actually be a peaceful, productive afternoon, a familiar voice cut through the air.

“Hey, twin!”

I froze. Daniela. Of course. She strolled by like she owned the courtyard, flipping her hair, smirking at James as if the world revolved entirely around her.

James tensed beside me, but I just groaned internally. “Really? Now?”

She leaned lightly on his shoulder, the teasing lilt in her voice sharp enough to sting. “Planning your little secret Harvard study sesh without me, huh? Don’t think I didn’t notice.”

I felt a mixture of irritation and amusement. Typical Daniela, always showing up at the worst possible moment, making even the simplest things complicated.

James straightened a little, clearly annoyed. “Daniela, seriously. Can you not right now?”

She smirked, folding her arms. “What? I’m just saying hi to my favorite twin. Don’t get all sensitive.” Her eyes flicked to me, then back to him, and I already felt the storm brewing.

James sighed, running a hand through his hair. “We’re busy. Go bother someone else.”

“Oh, relax.” Daniela tilted her head, her grin sharpening. “You know, ever since your little glow-up this summer, you’ve been acting like you’re Mr. Confident. Sharp jawline, nice shoulders, no glasses, suddenly you think you’re… what? The main character?”

James clenched his jaw, visibly stung. “It’s not fake confidence, Dani. I actually worked for it.”

She laughed, low and mocking. “Worked for it? Please. You’re still the same pudgy little kid who followed Y/N around like a puppy. Just because you ditched the glasses doesn’t mean you’ve changed.”

I glanced between them, caught in the crossfire. James’ face flushed red, his fists tightening against his knees, while Daniela leaned back, smug and satisfied with the hit.

I wanted to step in, to tell her to lay off but part of me just sat there, stunned, realizing how sharp her words cut. James, my best friend, was staring at the ground, struggling to piece together a comeback that wouldn’t make him look even smaller.

And Daniela? She was watching me, not him, her smirk daring me to pick a side.

James finally snapped. He stood up fast, grabbing my wrist in one smooth motion. “Come on, let’s just, let’s move,” he muttered, voice tight with frustration.

I blinked up at him, startled. “Uh… what?”

But he didn’t wait for me to process. He tugged me up from the bench, his grip firmer than usual, practically dragging me toward the edge of the courtyard. My feet stumbled after him, my brain still catching up, confusion written all over my face.

Behind us, Daniela’s voice rang out, sharp as ever.

“Oh, sure, run away. James. Don’t worry, I’ll leave you guys alone. Wouldn’t want to overstay my welcome.”

I turned back just in time to see her give a mocking little wave, her grin smug and victorious. James’ jaw was set like stone, his hand still locked around mine, warm and unyielding.

James didn’t say anything as he pulled me down the hall, his grip finally loosening once we were out of sight. My mind, though, was still replaying Daniela’s smirk, her sharp words echoing louder than I wanted to admit.

It wasn’t always like this.

The three of us used to play together, me, James, and Daniela running through the neighborhood streets until the sun went down. Tag, hide-and-seek, riding bikes until our legs burned. Back then, she wasn’t my enemy. She was just… Dani. Loud, bossy, sure, but part of our little trio.

Then, somewhere along the line, she stopped showing up. James and I would wait at the corner for her, but her excuses got longer, her presence rarer, until it was just me and him.

She changed...

By the time middle school came around, it was like an unspoken rule: I didn’t talk to Daniela, and she didn’t talk to me unless it was to get under my skin.

Now, every interaction felt like a battle she was determined to win. And I hated how much space she still took up in my head.

James finally let go of my wrist, glancing at me like he was searching for something in my face. I forced a smile, trying to shake off the memory.

But deep down, I couldn’t ignore the truth: no matter how far apart we’d drifted, Daniela had once been part of my world. And maybe that’s why it stung so much now.

James’ room looked exactly the same as it always had posters on the wall, stacks of books balanced in precarious towers, that same desk lamp that flickered if you touched it wrong. We spread our notes across the bed, Harvard prep guides open between us, but it didn’t take long before the silence settled heavy.

He sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Sorry Ditto, you know about Dani...Again.”

I gave a small shrug, scribbling half a formula in my notebook. “Don’t worry about it. I’m used to it by now.”

And it was true. Her teasing, her digs, the way she always seemed to crash into my life it was routine. Expected. But still, every time James apologized, I could see the guilt in his eyes, like he was caught in some endless tug-of-war between us.

I leaned back against the headboard, letting the pen drop from my fingers. My mind drifted, not to the present, but to the past.

We hadn’t always been like this. Once upon a time, the three of us had our own little world. A world of inside jokes no one else understood, ridiculous nicknames, and codenames we’d whisper like spies on a mission. Back then, Dani wasn’t the enemy; she was part of the team. We were unstoppable, just kids with scraped knees and wild imaginations.

I smiled faintly, remembering one of our old “missions,” the three of us hiding behind James’ shed, convinced we were saving the neighborhood from an “alien invasion” that turned out to be Mrs. Kline’s sprinkler. Stupid, simple, perfect.

James caught the smile, tilting his head. “What?”

“Nothing,” I said quickly, forcing my eyes back to the prep book. But in my chest, that old warmth lingered, a reminder of how things used to be, and how much had changed since.

We’d been buried in prep books for a while when James closed his notes with a sigh. “Okay, brain’s fried. Time for a break.”

I stretched my arms over my head, stifling a yawn. “Agreed. If I see one more practice essay, I might combust.”

He chuckled, then hesitated, fiddling with the edge of his notebook. “Hey… remember the ski trip last year?”

I glanced at him, nodding. “Yeah. When you wiped out so hard you nearly took out the rental shack? Iconic.”

His ears went pink. “Thanks for the reminder.” He smirked, but there was something softer in his voice. “No, I mean… remember how it was? Just… us. Hanging out, no one else around. It was nice.”

I shrugged, grinning at the memory. “Yeah, it was fun. Good times.”

He shifted, leaning a little closer. “We should do that again sometime. You know… just you and me. Not the whole school, not… Dani.”

I tilted my head, oblivious to the weight behind his words. “Sure, I’m down. Always nice to have a break from the chaos.”

His smile lingered a little longer than usual, like my answer meant more than I realized. I just stretched again, already flipping back through my prep guide.

To me, it was just another casual plan with my best friend. To him… it was something else entirely.

After a while, I excused myself to grab some water. James muttered something about reviewing vocab while I was gone, though I doubted he’d even crack the book without me.

Their house was quiet except for the muffled thump of music drifting from down the hall. I slowed, curious, and peeked through the half-open door. Daniela’s room.

She was in front of her mirror, hair tied back, practicing some kind of choreography. Sharp movements, quick footwork, her reflection perfectly in sync with the beat. She stumbled once, cursed under her breath, then tried again. This time, when she nailed it, she actually jumped up and down, grinning, clapping for herself like a little kid.

I froze, caught off guard. For once, there was no smirk, no teasing edge, just pure excitement. And before I knew it, I was smiling too. She was just cute. Way too cute.

Then her eyes flicked to the doorway. She spotted me instantly. My grin vanished as fast as it came, bracing for the usual sarcastic remark.

But instead, she pulled out one earbud, tilting her head. “You spying on me, President?”

I opened my mouth, fumbling for an excuse, but she laughed softly. “Relax. If you’re that interested, I could… teach you. It’s not that hard once you get the rhythm.”

I blinked, caught completely off guard. No mockery. No bite. Just… an offer.

I don’t even know why I said it. Maybe it was curiosity, maybe it was the way she’d jumped around the room like a little kid, or maybe I just wanted to see what Daniela was like without the armor of her constant teasing.

“...Yeah,” I said slowly, stepping into the room. “Show me.”

Her eyebrows rose, clearly not expecting me to agree. For once, there was no smirk, no smart remark waiting on her tongue. She just nodded and shifted to make space.

“Okay. Basic step first,” she said, pulling the earbuds free and restarting the music. Her voice was calm, almost patient. She mirrored the movement slowly, counting out loud. “One, two, three, don’t stiffen up. You’re not a robot.”

I tried to follow, but my timing was off, my footwork clumsy. She laughed under her breath, not the sharp laugh she usually aimed at me, but a real one, light and genuine.

“Close,” she said, moving closer. “Here like this.”

She adjusted my shoulders, her hand brushing against mine as she guided me through the step. It was nothing, just a touch, but my chest tightened anyway. The air between us felt heavier, the tension thick enough to notice.

I swallowed hard, forcing a smile. “Guess I’m not exactly cut out for this.”

She looked up at me, her grin returning, but softer this time. “Not yet. But you could be.”

The music kept looping, her movements slowing as she guided me through another step, but my head wasn’t on the choreography anymore. My chest felt tight, my throat dry. Maybe it was the closeness, maybe it was the way her smile had slipped into something almost… real.

Before I could stop myself, the words tumbled out. “Why’d you stop talking to me?”

The room froze. Daniela’s hands dropped from my shoulders like I’d burned her. Her expression hardened instantly, shutters slamming down over whatever softness had been there a second ago.

“Seriously?” she snapped, eyes narrowing. “Of course. Little Miss President needs her answers.” She crossed her arms, jaw clenched. “Well, here’s one: I stopped. That’s it. End of story.”

Her tone cut like a knife. My heart stumbled, caught off guard by the heat in her voice. “Dani, I didn’t—”

She took a step back, pointing at the door. “If that’s all, then leave.”

The music pulsed on behind us, but the warmth from before was gone, replaced by something jagged and raw.

I stood there, unsure if I’d just made a mistake or if I’d finally uncovered the first crack in the wall she’d built between us.

By the time I slipped back into James’s room, my pulse was still uneven, Daniela’s words echoing in my head. Little Miss President needs her answers…

James looked up from his desk, eyebrows raised. “Where’d you disappear to? I thought you bailed on me.”

I forced a quick laugh, hoping it didn’t sound as brittle as it felt. “Just… water. Got distracted.”

He tilted his head, studying me for a second longer than was comfortable, like he didn’t fully believe me. But then his expression softened, and he leaned back in his chair. “Well, I was about to text you. Thought maybe I scared you off with too much Harvard prep.”

I smiled faintly, sliding into the chair beside him. “Please. You could never scare me off with studying.”

The lie sat heavy on my tongue, but I shoved it down, pretending like my hands weren’t still buzzing from where Daniela had touched my shoulders, pretending like my head wasn’t still full of her voice.

James didn’t notice. Or maybe he chose not to.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Weeks had passed, but the universe clearly had it out for me. When Mrs. Tate read the partner list for today’s lab, I swear I saw Daniela’s smirk forming before my name even hit the air.

“Perfect,” she said, sliding onto the stool next to me like she owned the spot. “Guess you’re stuck with me again, President.”

I rolled my eyes, pulling the worksheet closer. “Don’t slow me down.”

I was struggling to balance the beaker properly because my hand always shakes slightly when I'm nervous about messing up. I try to hide it, but Daniela catches on immediately.

She smirks. “Still can’t hold your hand steady when people are watching, huh?” she whispers, leaning close so only you can hear. “Guess some things never change.”

I freeze because it’s true. Back in middle school, I had stage fright during presentations, and she was one of the only people who ever noticed that my hands trembled.

I didn’t think she’d remember.

She takes the beaker from you effortlessly, her movements smooth, showing you up in front of the class. “Don’t worry, Princess,” she adds just loud enough for James to overhear, “I’ve got it handled.”

I handed her the beaker, careful not to spill as our fingers brushed for half a second. Daniela tilted her head, smirk tugging at her lips like she’d just won something.

“Aw,” she teased, pouring the solution into the flask with practiced ease. “Look at you, finally admitting I’m better at this. Took you long enough.”

I scoffed, trying to cover the heat creeping into my face. “Don’t flatter yourself. I just didn’t want to clean up glass and acid today.”

Her smirk widened, eyes flicking up to meet mine with that same sharp glint that always left me off balance. But before I could fire back, I caught movement across the room.

James.

He was supposed to be focused on his own experiment with his partner, but instead he was staring, no, glaring at us. His jaw tight, his grip on the glass rod a little too hard.

Daniela noticed too. The teasing smirk lingered on her face for only a second—just long enough to twist my stomach—before her eyes flicked back across the room to James. He was still staring, jaw tight, knuckles white around the glass rod.

And just like that, Daniela’s expression changed.

Her smirk flattened into a straight line, her shoulders drawing back like armor snapping into place. She set the beaker down a little too firmly, her movements suddenly sharp, mechanical.

“Your turn,” she said flatly, sliding the worksheet toward me without meeting my eyes.

The warmth from earlier was gone. No more teasing whispers, no quick glances, no smirk tugging at her mouth. She kept her focus glued to the lab steps, her answers clipped and precise.

I tried to joke once, something about my handwriting being illegible and she didn’t even crack a smile. Just scribbled in the data box and muttered, “Doesn’t matter. I’ll rewrite it.”

The silence between us stretched, thick and cold, broken only by the bubbling of the solution on the burner. Whatever fragile truce had been there a few minutes ago had iced over, and I couldn’t shake the nagging feeling that James’s glare had something to do with it.

By the time Mrs. Tate called for clean-up, Daniela was already packing up, her chair scraping back. “See you around, President,” she said, voice cool and dismissive, before walking out without looking back.

I was confused, to say the least. One second, she was teasing me, brushing my hand like some unspoken truce had been made, and the next… cold shoulder. Blank expressions. Sharp movements. Like she’d erased all of our earlier interactions in a heartbeat.

I knew she had changed. The girl I used to know the one who had once been part of our trio was gone, replaced by this mix of fire and sharp edges. And yet, part of me couldn’t stop noticing it. The way she moved. The way she worked. Even the way she smiled, brief, rare, dangerous.

But another part of me hated her for it. For making my life a constant battlefield. For sneaking into my thoughts when I didn’t want her there. For making James glare at her like he did and now, making me wonder why my own chest tightened every time she drew close.

I shook my head, trying to focus on my notes, but her absence filled the space in the lab like a shadow. The contradiction gnawed at me: part admiration, part irritation, all tangled with a feeling I couldn’t name.

While I was having the biggest crash out of my life, James crept up to me with his usual grin but it hinted something beneath it that I could really place.

While I was having the biggest crash of my life confused, frustrated, heart tangled in a mess of emotions James crept up beside me.

His usual grin was there, the one that usually made me roll my eyes or laugh, but this time… there was something beneath it I couldn’t place. Not quite smug, not quite nervous, but something sharper, more intense.

“Hey,” he said softly, leaning on the edge of the table, his eyes tracking mine. “You… okay?”

I blinked at him, unsure how to answer. “I… yeah, fine.” The lie slipped out before I could stop it, because what else could I say? That my mind kept flipping between Daniela’s teasing, her sudden coldness, and now James’s impossible grin?

He tilted his head, studying me like he always did, but this time it felt different. Like he wasn’t just looking at his best friend. Like he was searching for something deeper.

“Mm,” he murmured, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “If you say so. Come lets get some lunch”

He walked off toward the door, his movements casual, his grin lingering just a second too long like he knew something I didn’t.

I just stared at his back, trying to put the pieces together. The way he had looked at me… it wasn’t the usual teasing, friendly grin. Something was different. But I couldn’t name it.

I shook my head, letting out a quiet sigh. Focus, I told myself. This isn’t about James.

And yet, even as I turned back to my notes, my mind kept drifting to Daniela her teasing, her sudden coldness, the way she had gotten under my skin in a way James never could.

Some things were complicated. Some things were messy. And some things… were just confusing.

I slid into my usual seat, the familiar creak of the chair grounding me after the whirlwind of the morning. Yoonchae plopped down on my left, Sophia on my right, and immediately the chatter started—soft laughs, exchanged looks, and the kind of gossip that made school life feel like a soap opera.

“Did you see James this morning?” Yoonchae whispered conspiratorially, leaning in close. “So many people asking him out lately. It’s getting ridiculous.”

I raised an eyebrow, trying not to react too obviously. “Really? Who’s asking him out now?”

Sophia smirked. “You know, the usual crowd. And apparently he’s still oblivious. Some people think it’s cute. Some people are… frustrated. Either way, the guy’s basically a magnet.”

I shook my head, a small laugh escaping me. James, oblivious? That sounded about right. I glanced across the room, imagining him striding through the halls with that same grin that had me shaking my head earlier.

“Honestly,” I muttered, leaning back in my chair, “he doesn’t even notice half of them. I’m convinced he’s got selective blinders for anything romantic.”

Yoonchae snorted. “Yeah, except maybe for the stuff he actually notices. You know, like you”

I froze for half a second, giving a awkward laugh "Yoonchae you are so funny"

Sophia caught my expression and laughed softly. “What? You don't see it?”

I froze for half a second, my stomach doing a weird little flip. “Yoonchae, you are so funny,” I said, forcing a laugh that probably sounded more nervous than amused.

Sophia’s laugh was softer, more knowing, and she leaned in slightly. “What? You don’t see it?”

I blinked at her, trying to keep my composure. “See what?” I asked, my voice a little too casual.

“Come on,” Yoonchae said, nudging me lightly with her elbow. “You’ve been zoning out every time James shows up”

I waved them off, trying to focus on my notebook. “You two are exaggerating. I’m just… thinking. About school stuff. Biology. Harvard. Important things.” And Dani...she all I think about recently.

Sophia tilted her head, smirking knowingly. “Uh-huh. Sure, ‘important things.’”

I forced a grin, scribbling something meaningless on my page, but in the back of my mind, the truth gnawed at me, yeah, maybe I did notice. Too much, in fact.

James was… cute. No denying it. The way he somehow always knew when I needed a laugh. I’d spent years beside him. He was like a brother to me. My best friend since forever. My partner in crime, my confidant, the one person who could always ground me when everything else was spinning out of control.

And if that changed… if the lines between us shifted even a little… I don’t know if I could handle it.

It wasn’t about feelings, not like that. It was about the foundation. The trust. The simplicity of having someone who understood me completely. Losing that is terrifying.

James strolled up with his lunch tray, plopping it down on the table with a grin. “Ladies, what are we talking about?”

Yoonchae snorted, and Sophia let out a little laugh, both clearly trying not to burst out loud. I glanced at them, raising an eyebrow. “Nothing,” I said quickly, trying to sound casual, even though my cheeks burned just a little.

James leaned back in his chair, eyes flicking between the three of us. “Uh-huh. Nothing, huh?” His grin widened, as if he knew exactly what was going on.

Yoonchae elbowed me lightly, suppressing a laugh. “Don’t lie, Ditto. You’ve got that face again.”

I waved her off, digging into my own lunch to hide my awkwardness. James just smirked knowingly, unpacking his food like he was perfectly content watching me squirm in silence.

“Ditto.” The word slipped out of nowhere, carried on some old memory I couldn’t quite place.

It had been a nickname from when we were kids, though I couldn’t remember exactly why. Something silly, something small, something that had stuck for reasons I could never fully explain.

I caught Yoonchae giving me a look across the table—sharp, knowing, like she was silently asking, Isn’t he the one?

Before I could respond or even process the question, Sophia leaned over slightly, lips moving just enough for me to read them: Ditto… oh, he’s just so cute, right?

I blinked at them, frozen for a second, my mouth opening and closing like a fish. “Uh… what?” I mumbled, cheeks warming.

Yoonchae stifled a laugh, and Sophia grinned, clearly delighted with my reaction. “You’re hopeless,” Yoonchae said lightly, shaking her head.

I shoved a forkful of salad into my mouth to hide my expression, but my mind was laughing. Cute? Him? No, no, he was like a brother. Always had been. Always.

James’ voice droned on, words bouncing off the walls like background noise I wasn’t registering. My gaze, unbidden, wandered across the room, landing on the table where Dani, Manon, Lara, and Megan were seated.

Dani’s hair caught the late afternoon light filtering through the windows, strands glowing like spun gold. I hate how beautiful she looks, how effortless she is when she isn't trying to kill me.

She laughed... her laugh is so intoxicating I fucking hate it. I hate when she laughs at something Megan said, head tipping back, eyes sparkling with mischief, and suddenly our eyes met.

A jolt shot through me, and heat rushed to my cheeks. I quickly looked away, forcing my gaze to the floor, heart hammering as if I’d been caught committing a crime. My ears were painfully aware of James’ voice, but it felt distant, muffled, like I was underwater.

Why I am blushing at her, She just caught be surprised...right?

“You’re blushing,” Sophia’s teasing voice cut through, sharp and knowing, tugging me back to the room. "James flirting is finally working"

I stammered, scrambling for words, my mind a jumble. “Uh… yah… totally…What?” I trailed off, realizing how absurd I sounded.

My face must be flaming now. Sophia chuckled, clearly enjoying my discomfort, and I could feel Dani’s gaze lingering, though I dared not meet it again.

James leaned back a little, smirking like he had a master plan, and nodded toward his arms. “Ahh, so you do like my muscles, huh? Didn’t think I’d catch your attention with these guns.”

I blinked at him, utterly confused. “Uh… what?”

He flexed, obviously expecting some impressed reaction, and laughed. “Come on, Ditto. Don’t act like you didn’t notice. You’re totally staring.”

I waved him off. “No! what? I wasn’t—”

Sophia and Yoonchae erupted into quiet giggles, clearly enjoying the show. “Uh-huh, sure,” Yoonchae said, smirking. “Totally ‘not noticing.’”

I groaned, burying my face in my hands. James was completely oblivious and that made it even worse. My thoughts were tangled between Daniela across the room and James’ ridiculous flexing in front of me, and somehow, the cafeteria had just become a battlefield of awkward tension.

I excused myself from the table under the guise of needing the bathroom, still feeling the heat from Sophia and Yoonchae’s teasing and James’ ridiculous flexing.

Turning the corner, I nearly collided with Megan and Manon, two of Daniela’s friends. They froze mid-step, their smiles tight, nervous, as if they had been waiting for this exact moment.

“Hey… uh… is something going on between you and James?” Megan asked, her voice careful, the question hanging in the air like it might shatter something fragile. Her eyes darted between me and the hallway, uncertain, almost pleading for reassurance.

I blinked, forcing myself to suppress a laugh at the absurdity of it. “Oh, him? No way,” I said, waving my hands like I was shooing away the idea. “He’s like… my brother. Seriously.” My words came out lighter than intended, tinged with amusement I couldn’t quite hide.

Relief washed over their faces instantly. Manon’s shoulders relaxed, her smile widening, while Megan let out a small, almost imperceptible laugh. “Oh! Good,” Manon said, a spark of genuine ease in her tone. “We just… you know...It just looked very different to us”

I chuckled softly, shaking my head. “Nope. Totally harmless. Just friends, like siblings. Nothing to worry about.”

I couldn’t help but notice a flicker of curiosity in their eyes—like they were silently wondering about James—but I pushed it from my mind, focusing instead on the cool tiles and the chance to escape all the cafeteria chaos for a few minutes.

I took a deep breath, smoothed a stray lock of hair behind my ear, and retouched my makeup, each stroke of the brush grounding me in some fragile sense of control.

When I finally stepped back into the cafeteria, the room felt different, tense, almost electric.

At the center of the chaos, James and Dani were locked in some heated argument. Voices rose and fell like waves crashing against the edges of the crowded room.

My stomach dropped when I caught snippets of James’ voice something about me "Oh fuck off, You didn't care about Y/N, even when it matter'd" He flung carelessly into the air. My pulse spiked.

Without thinking, I pushed through the throng of students, my hands gripping James’ shoulders. “Hey! Enough!” I yanked him away from the center of the crowd, dragging him toward a quieter corner by the back stairwell.

I felt a prickling at the back of my neck. My eyes flicked back to the cafeteria and froze. Dani was being pulled away by Lara, her body tense, every muscle coiled. Her eyes locked onto mine, burning with a mixture of fury and disbelief, and her glare cut sharper than any words could.

He resisted for a moment, frowning, but the moment my hands held firm, his anger seemed to lose some of its fire.

“James… breathe,” I said, keeping my voice low but steady, forcing him to meet my eyes. “It’s not worth it. Just… calm down.”

For a heartbeat, the world shrank to that single moment...Dani, her expression carved from storm clouds, and me, caught between trying to calm James and facing the storm I’d just unleashed.

After his breath slowdown, and he seem more calm I demanded, “Why are you fighting?” my voice low but sharp as I pressed James back against the wall of the stairwell. The din of the cafeteria was muffled here, though I could still feel the weight of Dani’s glare lingering in my chest like a bruise.

James didn’t answer right away. His jaw clenched, and when he finally lifted his gaze to mine, those soft, baby-brown eyes met me head-on. The anger that had burned in him moments ago flickered, dimmed, and what replaced it startled me.

“You love me, right?...Ditto?” he asked suddenly, voice stripped of bravado, raw and almost childlike.

The words knocked the air out of me. My lips parted, but nothing came for a moment, just the thundering of my pulse in my ears. Love? My mind scrambled, stumbling over every possible meaning he could have loaded into that word.

“James…” I whispered, taken aback, caught in the intensity of his gaze. His eyes searched mine like he was begging for reassurance, for something solid to hold onto.

And before I could think better of it, the words slipped out. “Yah… you mean a lot to me.”

I forced a small smile, hoping it was enough to calm the storm inside him, even as my own chest tightened.

Love is a complicated and I could never say I love someone, cause if you don't mean it don't say it, it was that simple. Words hold heavy meaning, I knew that since birth. A mother who was a household name, Oscar, Tony, acting awards in the back of her cabinet. Men who would walk in and out...Her empty words when she talked about my non-existent father. "He was hook-up, young love in disguise."

So I'll never say I love you, cause it gonna be Young Love in disguise.

Harvard. That had been my armor, my ticket to something real, something unshakable. I had to make her proud—my mother, my own survival, the hollow space inside me that longed for permanence in a world that never stayed. Success was proof I could hold myself together, proof that despite everything, I mattered on my own terms.

It's a lonely path, thats why I have James. My chosen family.

I blinked, shaking my head slightly, trying to push the memories aside. The cool air of the stairwell and the echo of our hurried footsteps pulled me back, but it only took one glance to realize I hadn’t fully escaped the moment.

James was staring at me, those soft baby-brown eyes unwavering, holding mine with a quiet intensity that made my chest tighten.

His jaw was tense, lips slightly parted, and for a second, the chaos of the cafeteria, the memories of my mother, and the weight of everything else faded.

The quiet tension between James and me shattered the moment footsteps echoed down the stairwell. I glanced up and froze. Dani was there, flanked by her friends, her posture stiff, her jaw set as if every step toward us was a battle.

Her eyes met mine, blazing with the same intensity as before, but now there was something different, hesitation, a hint of resentment that she was being dragged into this. Lara, Manon, and Megan hovered just behind her, whispering, nudging her forward, their hands lightly guiding her as if she needed a leash to keep her from storming past.

“I… I’m sorry,” Dani muttered finally, her voice tight, clipped, forced. The words sounded hollow even to her, and I could see the way she struggled against them, the tension in her shoulders, the tight line of her lips.

James flinched slightly at her tone, but the storm in his eyes didn’t fade completely. I could feel the weight of her glare pressing into me, accusing, questioning. It was clear she wasn’t apologizing because she wanted to. She was apologizing because she had to.

“Say it like you mean it,” I pressed, my voice low but sharp, forcing her to meet my gaze. The echo of my words seemed to bounce off the narrow stairwell walls, heavy and insistent.

Dani blinked, startled, and her lips parted. “What?” she said, confusion and defiance mixing in her tone.

Manon’s hand darted forward, tugging lightly at Dani’s sleeve, a silent reminder of the expectation hovering over her. Dani’s shoulders slumped slightly, and finally, almost reluctantly, she muttered, “I… I’m sorry.”

I raised an eyebrow, stepping closer. “What are you sorry for?” The question wasn’t gentle. It carried the weight of every unfair half-apology I’d ever endured, every moment someone had shoved words at me without meaning them.

Her eyes snapped to mine, sharp and blazing now, and she pushed back just enough to hold her ground. “Okay, princess,” she spat, her voice low but venomous, “you don’t know what we were fighting about, so stop acting so fucking high and mighty.”

“I don’t know a lot,” I shot back, stepping closer, “but I know you probably started it. Like always.” My voice was sharp, fueled by frustration I couldn’t quite contain, and I could feel the heat rising in my chest.

Dani’s eyes narrowed, a mixture of disbelief and exasperation flashing across her face. Then she let out a bitter laugh, sharp and incredulous. “The bias is fucking crazy,” she spat, her words laced with frustration, “you guys are perfect for each other… driving me fucking insane.”

She scoffed, the sound cutting through the air like a knife, and without waiting for a response, she turned on her heel. Her friends followed silently, and she strode away with a fury in her steps, the echo of her boots leaving a pulse of tension in the stairwell.

I stood frozen for a moment, staring after her retreating back, my chest tight, and my mind spinning. The anger, the irritation, the unspoken words, it all hung heavy in the air. I could feel James shifting beside me, uneasy, waiting for me to react, but the words I wanted to say to Dani were already swallowed by the space she’d left behind.

I walked away without saying another word, my steps measured and deliberate, letting the chaos of the cafeteria fade behind me. James’ voice cut through the air, sharp and panicked. “Hey! Wait—!” he shouted, my name carrying a weight I wasn’t ready to bear. But I ignored it, letting the sound wash over me without breaking stride.

I found a quiet corner, pressing myself against the wall, knees drawn up, and let the tension of the last few minutes settle like a heavy stone in my chest. My breathing was uneven, and I could still feel the heat of anger, frustration, and something else, something I wasn’t ready to name, coiling tight inside me.

A soft sound drew my attention, and I looked up to see Manon standing there, her expression cautious but gentle. She knelt beside me, keeping just enough distance to let me breathe.

“Hey… are you okay?” she asked softly, her voice steady, grounding. She didn’t push, didn’t demand answers, she just sat there, presence calm and reassuring, like a small anchor in the storm.

I swallowed hard, the knot in my chest loosening slightly. “I… yeah, I think so,” I murmured, though the words felt hollow.

Manon gave me a small, understanding smile and offered her hand, a silent invitation that wasn’t about words or apologies, just the simple comfort of someone willing to stay.

Manon shifted slightly, settling closer but still giving me space, her voice soft and careful. “I know Dani can be… a lot,” she began, hesitating as if measuring every word, “but she really cares about you. I hate to do my girl like this, but… she talks about you a lot.”

I blinked, caught off guard. The tension in my chest loosened just a fraction, curiosity threading through the lingering frustration.

“You know… back when you guys used to hang out?” Manon continued, her tone gentler now, almost wistful. “She’d mention the smallest things, stuff you said, the way you laughed, things she wanted to do with you in middle school, places she wanted to go. Even when she was mad, it wasn’t about pushing you away. It’s… complicated with her.”

I swallowed, the heat creeping up my neck. I hadn’t expected this. Dani’s anger, sharp and fiery just minutes ago, now felt like a different lens, one colored by concern, by care she rarely let show.

I shifted against the wall, letting her words sink in, the chaos of the cafeteria still ringing faintly behind my ears.

Manon’s eyes softened as she studied me, silently offering comfort. “She just… wants you to know, even if she doesn’t always say it the way you want.”

I closed my eyes for a moment, letting the weight of her words settle.

“Then why does she keep doing this?” My voice cracked, thinner than I wanted, but it was too late to pull the words back. For once, I let the vulnerability slip, hoping—begging—that maybe Manon could give me some glimpse into what Daniela was really thinking.

She sighed, the sound soft and almost… defeated. Then, with a little chuckle, she tilted her head, her eyes darting away before finally meeting mine again. “That’s not my story to tell,” she drawled, her tone teasing but laced with something heavier. She held my gaze for just a beat longer, then added, “Talk to her. She has what you need.”

Her words echoed in my head like a curse. What I need? Daniela Andrea Avanzini Llorente—my nemesis, the girl who had made it her mission to ruin my life—had what I need? Never in a million years would I have believed that.

Manon and I kept talking after that, but never about her. It was like an invisible line we both knew better than to cross, the tension hanging there, unspoken but undeniable.

I was still half lost in thought when I noticed James. He hovered at the edge, his shoulders hunched, his face weighed down with something I couldn’t quite name, remorse? Sadness? It made my stomach twist.

Before I could say anything, Manon tapped my shoulder as she stood. “Well, I’m off. But think of it, okay?” She gave me a coy smile, her voice dropping softer. “I’m trusting you, Y/N.”

I waved back, forcing a small smile but as soon as James sat down beside me, that smile evaporated.

James plopped down next to me, trying for his usual grin, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “You looked like you were solving world peace over here,” he said lightly, nudging my arm. “Or maybe just trying to figure out the cafeteria mystery meat.”

I rolled my eyes, not in the mood. “James.”

He chuckled, leaning in closer. “What? I’m just trying to lighten the mood, Ditto. You’re way too serious sometimes. Smile a little—”

“Stop.” My voice cut sharper than I intended, and his grin faltered. I turned to him fully, frustration bubbling up. “Enough jokes. Tell me the truth. What happened? Why are you and Daniela always at each other’s throats?”

For a moment, silence stretched between us. His playful mask slipped, the weight of my words hanging in the air. He looked down at his hands, then back up at me, his jaw tightening.

“Y/N…” he started, but the lightness in his voice was gone now. “It’s… complicated.”

I leaned forward, refusing to let him dodge. “Then uncomplicated it. I’m tired of being stuck in the middle, James. I deserve to know.”

His jaw locked, and I could see the shift in his expression, the way his grin collapsed, replaced by something colder.

“Back off, Y/N,” he snapped, his voice harsher than I’d ever heard it. “This isn’t your business. It’s a family matter.”

I stared at him, stunned. “Back off?” My voice cracked with anger. “Do you have any idea what it’s like, being stuck in the middle of your endless war with her? You drag me into it every single day, and now you’re telling me I don’t get to know why?”

James ran a hand through his hair, his eyes flashing with something between guilt and frustration. “Because it’s not about you. It never was. So just...drop it.”

The words hit harder than I expected. My chest tightened, fury and hurt tangled up in a knot I couldn’t untangle. “Fine,” I said flatly, my voice colder than I felt. “If you don’t trust me enough to be honest, then don’t bother talking to me at all.”

Before he could answer, I grabbed my bag and stood, the scrape of the chair against the floor slicing through the noise. I didn’t look back, not even when I felt his eyes burning into my back.

And just like that, I stopped talking to James.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Weeks passed.

True to my word, I didn’t talk to James. No study sessions, no shared jokes, no lazy afternoons filled with inside references only we understood. Nothing. I’d see him in class, sitting just a few rows over, and the silence between us felt heavier than the textbook in my lap.

And yet, while I shut him out, the rest of the world seemed to finally notice him.

James Avanzini, the pudgy kid I used to race bikes with down Maple Street, had transformed into the school’s hot nerd. Suddenly every hallway he walked down was filled with whispers. Girls lingered near his locker, giggling too loudly. Others pretended to need “help” in bio or math just to spend a few minutes with him.

He laughed more now, sharper, quicker, and his grin always found its audience. He wasn’t just James anymore. He was James, the boy everyone wanted.

And every time I saw a new girl slip her number into his hand, a part of me twisted, though I refused to admit why.

After all, he wasn’t my problem anymore.

The hum of the fluorescent lights filled the biology lab, a dull backdrop to the rustle of pages and the clatter of glass beakers. I slid into my seat, bracing myself for another endless lecture on cell division. But then the air shifted, subtle at first, like the low buzz of a hive gathering around something sweet.

James.

He strolled in a few minutes late, hair slightly tousled, lab coat slung carelessly over his shoulder.

“James, can you help me with this?” one girl asked, tilting her worksheet toward him with a practiced smile.

“Oh, James, your handwriting’s so neat, can I copy your notes?” another chimed in, leaning just a little too close, her perfume wafting through the air.

A third giggled at something he muttered under his breath, eyes wide, as though he’d said the funniest thing in the world. Suddenly, James was surrounded three, four girls at once, laughing, whispering, leaning over his desk.

I sat frozen, pretending to scribble in my notebook, It isn't my place to say anything but after being friends with him for 16 years I wouldn't think he would switch up on me that fast.

The bell rang, sharp and final, scattering students in every direction. Laughter and chatter spilled into the hallways as everyone rushed for lunch, and I stayed behind just long enough to avoid the crowd around James.

He was still grinning, still surrounded, still riding the wave of attention that made him look like someone I barely recognized.

I slipped out quietly, not bothering to catch his eye. The knot in my chest pulled tighter with every step down the corridor until I finally pushed through the double doors and out into the quad.

The sunlight hit hard, bright and unrelenting, the grass stretching wide and open, dotted with students lounging in groups. I

chose a corner table under the shade of an old oak, away from everyone else. Pulling out my notebook, I spread my things across the bench, forcing myself to focus on the half-finished assignment staring back at me.

I sat alone, notebook open on my lap, pretending to study when really I was just staring at the same line of notes over and over.

“Mind if I sit?”

I looked up, startled. Daniela stood there, arms crossed, but her usual smirk was nowhere to be found. Instead, her eyes held something unreadable, something almost… soft.

I hesitated, then shrugged. “Free country.”

She lowered herself onto the grass beside me, smoothing out her skirt. For a moment, neither of us spoke, just the hum of voices and the occasional laughter drifting around us. Finally, she said, “So, James.”

I tensed. “What about him?”

She glanced at me, then away, her tone quieter than I’d ever heard it. “He’s… different now. All these people suddenly care about him, but they don’t know him. Not like we do.”

I frowned, caught off guard by the sincerity in her voice. No teasing, no edge, just honesty.

“Why are you telling me this?” I asked carefully.

Daniela toyed with a blade of grass between her fingers, her jaw tightening. “Because you’re the only one who actually sees him. You’ve always been… there. Even when I wasn’t.”

Something in my chest shifted, uncomfortable and unfamiliar. For the first time, I didn’t see my enemy sitting next to me. I saw a girl who cared about her brother, who maybe carried more than she let on.

“I’ll say this much,” she muttered finally, “I’m sorry. For… all the fighting. For making everything harder than it needed to be.”

I blinked, sure I’d misheard. Daniela Avanzini, apologizing?

She glanced at me, catching the disbelief in my face, and huffed out a laugh. “Don’t look at me like that. I didn’t say I started it.”

Despite myself, my lips curved into a wry smile. “So who did?”

Her expression flickered, hesitation, then something heavier. She looked down, her fingers twisting the blade of grass until it snapped in two.

“That’s… complicated,” she said softly.

I leaned in, searching her face. “Why did we even start fighting, Dani? We used to be… friends, remember? Then suddenly it was war. What happened?”

She froze, her eyes darting away like the question itself was too dangerous to touch. For a long moment, she didn’t answer, just pressed her lips into a thin line.

“I…” She exhaled sharply, shaking her head. “Forget it. It doesn’t matter.”

“No.” My voice was sharper than I intended, cutting through the quiet hum of the quad. “I need answers. What was the fight about? And why did you stop talking to me?”

She froze for a moment, her gaze flicking to the horizon as if weighing her words. Then, almost casually, she leaned back on her hands and let a sly grin creep across her face.

“Hang out with me tonight,” she said, her tone teasing but deliberate. “I’ll tell you everything.”

I blinked, caught off guard. “Tonight?”

“Yeah,” she said, shrugging lightly. “No lectures, no interruptions. Just… us. I promise you’ll get your answers. If you show up, that is.”

The weight of her words settled over me, a mixture of curiosity, apprehension, and something I couldn’t name. I nodded slowly, trying to keep my excitement or nervousness in check.

“Fine,” I said finally. “I’ll be there.”

She smirked, the familiar edge returning just enough to remind me why our history was so… complicated. “Good,” she said. “Don’t be late.”

---

I waited at the station, shifting my weight from one foot to the other, glancing down the tracks every few seconds. My nerves buzzed, anticipation mixed with a strange kind of dread.

“Hey there,” a voice drawled behind me. I turned to see a guy leaning against the railing, a confident grin plastered across his face. “Waiting alone?”

I forced a polite smile. “Uh, actually, I’m waiting for someone.”

He raised an eyebrow, smirk widening. “Someone? I guess they're gone, aren't they? Come on, let me keep you company.”

Before I could even answer, a familiar shadow fell over me. Daniela.

She stepped close, pressing her hip against mine and looping her arm around me in a firm, possessive hold. “Sorry, babe,” she murmured softly, brushing a stray strand of hair from my shoulder. “You okay?”

The guy’s grin faltered, and suddenly Daniela’s sharp glare pinned him in place. “Uh… yeah, I’m fine,” I mumbled, cheeks burning.

“Good,” Daniela said coolly, eyes never leaving his. “Now leave.”

The guy muttered something under his breath and quickly walked away, leaving the two of us standing in silence for a moment, the tension thick but electric.

I swallowed hard, my pulse still racing. “Neーnever do that again” I stammered.

She smirked, tightening her hold just slightly. “Don’t mention it, Princess” she said, her voice low, teasing, but with an edge that made it clear she wasn’t joking.

Okay, so I came. So give me my answers,” I said, arms crossed, trying to sound firmer than I felt.

Daniela laughed, a low, teasing sound that made my chest tighten. “Jesus, Princess, what’s the rush?” She leaned back slightly, letting her grin stretch wider. “Let’s get dinner first. You know, relax a little bit.”

I narrowed my eyes. “Relax? I don’t have time to relax. I need answers.”

She tilted her head, mockingly regal. “Calm down, I never remember you being this prissy, Or does Highness don’t dine with commoners like me?”

I groaned, but couldn’t hide the twitch of a smile at her antics. “You’re impossible,” I muttered.

“And yet, you showed up anyway,” she said, looping her arm through mine as we started walking toward the nearest diner. “I think that says more about you than it does about me, Ditto.”

Ditto...that nickname was reserved for James, but I guess she owns it for tonight...

We slipped into a booth by the window, the warm hum of the diner wrapping around us. Daniela immediately started scanning the menu, humming in mock contemplation.

“Hmm,” she said, tapping her chin dramatically. “Decisions, decisions… what to eat, what to eat. You know, Ditto, you really need to loosen up. You take life way too seriously.”

I rolled my eyes, sliding a coffee cup toward me as I opened my notebook—half as a shield, half as a way to focus. “I don’t want food,” I muttered, trying to steer the conversation. “I want answers.”

She glanced at me, a teasing glint in her eyes. “Answers, hm? You know, part of me wants to make you wait. Make you squirm a little. But…” She finally set down the menu, leaning across the table, “I promised. So spill, Princess. What exactly do you want to know first?”

I let out a shaky breath, trying to ignore the flutter of nerves at how close she leaned. “Why did we start fighting? And why did you stop talking to me?”

Her smirk softened slightly, though it didn’t disappear. “Alright,” she said, spinning the coffee cup between her hands. “It’s time you knew the truth… but be prepared. Some of it might hurt.”

She leaned back, swirling her coffee with deliberate casualness. “Honestly?” she said, her voice light, teasing even. “I guess… I just got new taste. Things change, people change, you know?”

Something in my gut tightened. Her eyebrow twitched a tiny, familiar tic she had whenever she was lying. I froze for a moment, studying her. That flicker never failed to give her away.

“Wait,” I said, leaning forward, voice firmer than I expected. “That’s your tick. You’re lying.”

Her eyes widened for the briefest second before she her brows furrowed, a corner of her mouth twitching in defeat. “Huh, What are you talking about”

I didn’t let up. “You have a tick, every time you lie your right eyebrow twitches, So I'm basically a human lie detector so why not tell me the truth"

She hesitated, biting the inside of her cheek, before finally exhaling. “Fine,” she said, lowering her voice. “I was jealous”

I frowned. “Jealous? From what?”

She avoided my eyes for a moment, then finally met my gaze, her teasing gone, replaced with something raw, unguarded.

“From everything…” she began, her voice trembling slightly, “I had you, and you had me. I—I know you don’t remember, but we were best friends. Before he even came along, we were it. Our inside jokes, our little secrets… suddenly they became his and yours.”

Her hands clenched around the edge of the table as she exhaled sharply, voice breaking a little. “Do you even know how it felt when you changed everything? When you stopped talking to me, telling me—I remember it perfectly—you said, ‘I wasn’t smart enough for you.’ Like I wasn’t even worth the effort. Our nicknames… the ones that were ours alone… suddenly they were all yours. Who do you think came up with ‘Ditto’? Me. I did. And he just… took it.”

Her eyes glistened, the edge of anger softening into hurt. For the first time, I saw the girl behind the teasing, the enemy I thought I knew so well.

She let out a shaky breath. “I hated watching you and James get closer. I know it’s stupid, I know he’s my brother, but… I felt like he stole you from me. Like I didn’t matter anymore.” Her fingers tightened around her coffee. “All those years, you were mine. My best friend. My person. And then suddenly you weren’t.”

I felt my chest tighten, her words hitting harder than I expected.

Her eyes finally lifted to meet mine, glassy but defiant. “So yeah, I was jealous. Ugly jealous. That’s why I pushed you away, why I turned everything into a fight. It was easier to hate you than admit how much it hurt.”

“I… I’m sorry,” I said quietly, the words heavier than I expected. “I didn’t realize… I never meant to hurt you.”

She let out a small, humor-tinged laugh, shaking her head slightly. “I know,” she said, smirking faintly despite the glint of unshed emotion in her eyes. “It’s petty, I guess… but you meant everything to me. Still do, in some ways.”

Her words hit me harder than I expected, a strange mixture of guilt, nostalgia, and something I couldn’t name swirling in my chest.

She let out a weak laugh, the tension in her shoulders easing just slightly. “My turn to ask,” she said, a teasing glint in her eyes. “Do you… like my brother?”

I almost choked on my coffee, then laughed, shaking my head emphatically. “Fuck no,” I said, leaning back in the booth. “He’s like a brother to me. Always has been. Everyone needs to stop asking and speculating, for the last time I don’t like your brother”

Her smile softened, genuine and relieved this time. “Good,” she said quietly, her eyes meeting mine. “I needed to hear that.”

I raised an eyebrow, unable to stop the edge in my voice. “Why...Do wish for me to want you?”

Her smile flickered, just slightly, and she leaned back, letting the words hang between us. “Maybe,” she said, her tone light but loaded, her eyes holding mine in a way that made my chest tighten.

“Maybe?” I repeated, incredulous, trying not to let my racing heart show.

“Maybe,” she echoed, a teasing smirk tugging at her lips. “You’ll just have to figure that out for yourself.”

Maybe.

God, the way she said it, light, careless, like it didn’t matter. But her eyes… her eyes said everything. They lingered on me, sharp and soft at the same time, like she knew exactly what kind of storm she was stirring up inside me.

My heart hammered against my ribs, and I swear she could hear it from across the table. It’s hot. No denying it. The teasing tilt of her lips, the way her fingers toyed with her straw, the way she leaned just close enough that her shoulder brushed mine, it was deliberate. She knew what she was doing.

I wanted to close the gap. I wanted to grab her, kiss her, make her admit what she was hiding under that smirk. But something in me held back, almost begging her to take that step first.

I caught myself leaning in a fraction, drawn toward her despite every rational thought screaming at me. My fingers twitched on the edge of the table, the urge to reach out just a little...building.

She noticed, of course. Her gaze flicked to my hands, then back to my eyes, sharp and playful. “What, Ditto? Thinking about touching me?”

I flushed, trying to hide it, but the tension only thickened. Her laugh, soft and low, was like a spark in the quiet diner.

“Or are you just going to sit there, all serious, pretending none of this matters?” Her voice dropped a notch, intimate, teasing, but heavy with something more.

I wanted to answer, but no words could capture the knot twisting in my stomach.

I stared at her for a long second, my mind screaming a million reasons not to, but my heart had other plans. Fuck it.

Before I could think twice, I leaned in, closing the distance. My lips met hers in a sudden, impulsive kiss.

She froze, completely caught off guard. I pulled back instantly, eyes wide, heart hammering. “I—I’m sorry! I didn’t—”

But she cut me off, her hands coming up to grip my shoulders, pulling me closer. Her lips met mine again, deeper this time, no hesitation, no walls.

I froze for a second, then let myself give in, the rest of the world melting away. Her warmth, the smell of her hair, the way her hands found mine it was intoxicating.

When we finally broke apart, just slightly, her eyes sparkled with that same mischievous glint I’d known for years.

“Did we just…” I murmured, trailing off, completely confused, heart still hammering in my chest.

She leaned back slightly, smirk curling at the corner of her lips, eyes sparkling with mischief and something softer underneath. “Yeah,” she said lightly, tilting her head. “We did. Surprised?”

I ran a hand through my hair, trying to process what had just happened. “Surprised? You could say that again,” I muttered, voice barely above a whisper.

Her laugh was soft, teasing, yet warm. “Relax, Ditto,” she said, nudging me gently with her shoulder. “It’s just a kiss… for now.”

The night air was cool, a soft breeze tugging at my hair as we walked side by side down the quiet streets. The diner’s neon glow still lingered in the distance, but all I could focus on was the sound of her boots scuffing the pavement, the occasional brush of her arm against mine.

“So,” she said casually, hands shoved in her jacket pockets, “Harvard kid, huh? Always knew you’d end up chasing something impossible.” Her voice carried its usual tease, but softer this time, like she didn’t actually want to bite.

I rolled my eyes, but couldn’t stop the smile tugging at my lips. “Impossible? You make it sound like I’m delusional.”

She bumped her shoulder into mine lightly. “Maybe you are. But… you’re the kind of delusional that gets things done. That’s what pissed me off about you, you know. You always made it look so easy.”

Her words caught me off guard, my chest tightening at the unexpected sincerity. For once, I didn’t have a comeback ready.

We fell into silence, the kind that wasn’t awkward, just heavy. My mind kept circling back to the diner, to maybe, to the kiss neither of us seemed willing to bring up again.

But with every step closer to my house, the tension grew, buzzing just under my skin. Her hand brushed mine once, twice, and I swear she did it on purpose, waiting to see if I’d grab it.

I didn’t. Not yet. Because as much as I wanted to, I wanted her to make the move.

We kept talking, drifting from dumb stories about middle school to what classes sucked the most this year. She was laughing at something I said, head tilted back, eyes crinkled and for a split second, all I could think about was how badly I wanted to reach over and take her hand.

My fingers twitched at my side, the thought gnawing at me. Just do it. Grab her hand. Stop overthinking.

But before I could work up the nerve, I felt her fingers slip between mine, casual, effortless, like it wasn’t a big deal at all.

I froze for half a heartbeat, staring at our linked hands. She didn’t look at me, didn’t say anything, just kept talking, swinging our arms slightly like this was the most natural thing in the world.

My chest tightened, heat rushing up my neck, but I bit my tongue and forced myself to play it cool. Inside, though? I was spiraling.

By the time we made it to my house, my palm was damp and my heart was going a mile a minute, but Daniela showed no sign of letting go. She stopped at the bottom of my steps, finally glancing down at our joined hands with a sly smirk.

“Well, well,” she drawled, eyes flicking up to mine. “Look at you. Blushing over holding hands? I didn’t know the student body president could be so… easily flustered.”

I rolled my eyes, trying to pull my hand back, but she only tightened her grip. “Oh, shut up. You’re the one who grabbed my hand first.”

“True,” she said, leaning in just enough to make my breath catch, “but you were thinking about it first. I could tell.”

Heat rushed to my face, and I opened my mouth to argue, but nothing came out. She laughed softly, stepping back at last, letting our fingers slip apart slowly, deliberately.

“Goodnight, Princess,” she murmured, eyes glinting under the porch light. “Sweet dreams… about me, obviously.”

And just like that, she turned and walked off down the street, leaving me standing there, heart pounding, both infuriated and impossibly drawn to her all at once.

The second Daniela disappeared around the corner, I bolted inside, taking the stairs two at a time. My pulse was still racing, my hand practically buzzing where hers had been. By the time I collapsed onto my bed, I was already dialing.

“Emergency meeting,” I hissed the second Sophia picked up. “Get on the group call now.”

Two rings later, Yoonchae’s voice joined the line, groggy but sharp. “It’s literally nine p.m., what’s on fire?”

“Me!” I whisper-shouted, pacing across my room. “I’m on fire. My entire life is on fire. I—ugh, I don’t even know where to start.”

“Spit it out,” Sophia said, half-amused. “Did James finally confess? Or did you accidentally fail a test?”

I groaned, dragging a hand down my face. “No! Worse. So much worse. Daniela walked me home and—” I cut myself off, heart pounding. “—she held my hand.”

The silence on the other end lasted two beats before both of them screamed at once.

“WHAT?!”

“DANI?!” Yoonchae practically shrieked.

“Oh my god,” Sophia gasped, “please tell me you’re joking.”

“I wish I was,” I muttered, flopping back onto my bed, staring at the ceiling. “But she did. And then god, she teased me about it at my doorstep like it was some kind of game!”

Sophia laughed so hard I thought she’d choke, while Yoonchae groaned dramatically. “Was it a bet?”

“Okay, hold up,” Yoonchae cut in, her voice sharp like she was trying to slap me through the phone. “Daniela Avanzini held your hand. Daniela. The same Daniela who’s been making your life hell since third grade? The same girl who literally called you ‘princess perfect’ in front of the entire cafeteria last year?”

“Exactly!” Sophia piled on, gasping like she’d uncovered a scandal. “And what about James? Oh my god, Y/N, James is literally in love with you. If he finds out—”

I shot up in bed, clutching my phone like it was the only thing keeping me grounded. “James was never an option!” I snapped, louder than I meant to. My breath hitched, heat flooding my cheeks. “He’s… he’s like a brother. That’s it. That’s all he’ll ever be.”

Silence.

“Wait,” Sophia said slowly, like she was piecing together a crime scene. “So if James isn’t the option… then who is?”

I swallowed hard, my face burning. My free hand fisted in my blanket, my chest tight as I forced the words out. “Dani... I think i like...her”

Another beat of silence.

Then chaos.

“WHAT THE ACTUAL—” Yoonchae practically screeched, so loud I had to pull the phone away from my ear.

“Oh my god,” Sophia whispered, giddy. “Oh my god, this is better than reality TV. You—you like her? Like, romantically?”

I pressed the heel of my hand to my forehead, groaning. “I didn’t mean to, okay?! It just… happened. She’s infuriating and cocky and—ugh—but when she smiles, or when she’s actually serious for once, I can’t—” My voice cracked. “I can’t stop thinking about her.”

Sophia giggled, while Yoonchae groaned like she was witnessing the end of civilization.

“You’re doomed,” Yoonchae muttered again. “Absolutely doomed.”

The bass from a portable speaker thumps against the concrete, rattling through the night air. A small crowd circles a group of dancers, heads bobbing, feet sliding against the pavement under flickering neon lights. The cypher’s alive, cheers erupt as a guy finishes a windmill, popping up with a grin.

Someone nudges you. “Yo, you’re up next. Show ‘em what you got.”

You smirk, adjusting your snapback. “Bet. Don’t cry when I end your streak.”

The beat drops harder, 808s and hi-hats rolling in perfect sync. You step forward, letting the rhythm hit first, shoulders rolling loose. A couple of smooth footwork steps, then you drop into a clean freeze, flipping right into a sharp hip-hop groove.

Cheers go up, but you don’t stop there.

You transition effortlessly popping with precision, weaving in musicality that hits every snare. The crowd goes wild half for the acrobatic spin, half for how you hit a final sharp freeze on the beat drop.

One of the b-boys shakes his head, laughing. “Yo, you’re not even a dancer, how the hell you eat us like that?”

You stand, brushing off your hands with a grin. “Don’t need to be a dancer to own the floor.”

Your name is famous around the streets here, known for your breakdancing and raps, that no one dared to challenge. You often join'd Cyphers as a way to express yourself, its just the vibe, the feeling of free expression that made it all fun.

The cypher dies down as you sling your bag over your shoulder, sweat sticking to the back of your neck. The city air feels cooler now, buzzing with leftover adrenaline from your little victory.

Your phone buzzes in your pocket. Unknown number.

You frown, sliding to answer. “Uh… hello?”

“Hi! Is this Y/N?” The voice is bright, professional, almost too chipper for the late hour. “This is Michelle, casting manager for the HYBExGeffen girl group. Do you have a moment to talk?”

You freeze mid-step. “…HYBExGeffen? Like… the HYBExGeffen?”

She laughs softly. “The one and only. Congratulations! You’ve officially passed our online auditions, and we’d love for you to join our next training and development program. Your submission, your vocals and rap especially stood out to the team.”

You blink, stunned. “Wait, wait, hold up. Are you serious? I—I wasn’t even sure if they actually looked at those videos!”

“Oh, we did. You’ve got something special. We’d like you to fly out next week. What do you say?”

Your heart pounds, every ounce of swagger from earlier evaporating. “Uh… yeah. Yeah, of course, I’ll do it! Wow...uh, yeah. Count me in.”

Michelle chuckles. “Great! We’ll send over the official details tonight. Congratulations again. Welcome to Dream Academy.”

The call ends, and you just stand there under the buzzing streetlight, phone still pressed to your ear.

You laugh, a little breathless. “…Guess this is really happening.”

Growing up in the streets of New York taught you a few things. People were either chasing dreams, or chasing survival. Some ran after fame, lights, and chances, and others just ran after their next meal, their next rent payment, their next way to stay afloat.

You learned quick if you wanted something, you had to fight for it. Every block taught you how to keep your head up, how to speak loud enough to be heard, and how to move like the city owed you nothing. The subway was your stage, rooftops your audience, and the noise of the city became the beat you lived to.

You definitely weren't rich, your parents working double shifts to pay for a roof under your head. And you... you were supposed to be doing the same but behind their backs you would pay for vocal lesson doing anything to keep your dream as a performer, and entertainer alive.

Your parents are heavily against it, the life in the music industry, calling it 'a chance for delusionals'. They wanted their only daughter to have a stable life, that got a 9-5, married and had 2 kids. The picket white-fence life in the suburbs. But you're different, you're going to chase your dreams, even if that meant sneaking out in the middle of the night to join a training program.

You quietly make your way to the airport after packing all your stuff, as you hop off the window you turn seeing the life your going to leave behind. Takeout boxes and empty beers cans, something definitely you are not going to miss. Leaving a note you said goodbye to the boring life to chase the thrill of 'delusion'.

The car door shuts behind you, and you sling your duffel bag over your shoulder. The dorm building isn’t anything fancy, a two story house with white walls, big windows, palm trees swaying in the LA heat but to you, it feels like a new world.

Inside, the hallway hums with voices and laughter. A few girls peek out from their rooms as you walk past, curious eyes following the new arrival. Some coming to you with open arms as they welcomed you into their home.

Your assigned dorm door is propped open. Two girls are already inside one sitting cross-legged on her bed, scrolling through her phone, the other unpacking clothes with an endless energy that fills the room.

The one on the bed looks up first wide-eyed, quiet, hesitant. “Hi…” she says softly, voice barely above a whisper.

The other one beams instantly. “You must be our new roommate! I’m Karlee,” she says, rushing over with a grin so bright it could light the whole room. She grabs your hand and shakes it enthusiastically. “And that’s Dani don’t mind her, she’s just shy at first.”

Dani glances up at you, offers a tiny smile, then looks back at her book.

You chuckle, dropping your bag by the empty bed. “Nice to meet you guys. Guess we’re stuck together now.”

Karlee laughs. “Stuck? Please, we’re about to be the best dorm here.”

Before you can reply, two other girls appear at the doorway.

“Hey, new girl!” A short girl with dark hair, Ezrela, as you’ll later learn, leans casually against the frame. “Heard we were getting someone who can actually sing. Welcome.”

Beside her, a blonde with a kind smile Emily waves warmly. “Don’t let her scare you. We’re glad you’re here.”

You grin, rubbing the back of your neck. “Thanks. Still kinda feels unreal that I’m even here.”

Ezrela smirks. “Trust me, it gets real fast. C’mon we’re all heading to the common room. You should meet the rest of the girls.”

Karlee grabs your arm like you’ve been friends forever. “Let’s go! We’re not wasting a single night being awkward.”

Dani lingers for a moment, then quietly follows. You catch her watching you from behind just a small glance but you can’t help smiling back at her.

Tonight, you’re not just the new kid anymore. This is the start of everything. You follow Ezrela and Emily down the hallway, Karlee chattering beside you while Dani trails quietly behind.

The common room is buzzing with laughter, music playing low from someone’s speaker. A few girls are sprawled across the couches, mid-conversation, but they all look up when you walk in.

A girl with warm eyes and soft features is the first to greet you. “Oh! You must be the new trainee,” she says, standing up with a gentle smile. “I’m Sophia. If you need anything, seriously, anything, just ask me, okay?”

“Careful,” Ezrela teases. “Sophia’s basically the dorm mom. She’ll pack you lunches if you let her.”

Sophia laughs, waving her off. “Ignore her.”

Next, a girl with dyed streaks in her hair bounces up from the couch. “I’m Megan,” she says, eyes sparkling with mischief. “Full disclosure, I say weird stuff sometimes, but I’m funny, I swear.”

Karlee grins. “She’s right. It’s… weird-funny, but still funny.”

“Thank you for the glowing endorsement,” Megan deadpans before giving you an exaggerated bow.

Finally, a tall blonde girl with strong features steps forward. She’s so effortlessly pretty it’s almost unsettling, big eyes, sweet voice, the kind of person who so confident it's radiating around the room.

“I’m Adela” she says warmly. “Welcome. You’re gonna love it here.”

You look around at the circle of new faces, each one different, but all smiling at you like you already belong.

"I'm Y/N, I looking forward to train with you guys" You say with a sweet smile.

Karlee nudges you with an elbow. “Guess you’re officially part of the chaos now.”

You laugh softly. “Guess so.”

The past few weeks blur together early mornings, late nights, endless dance practices that leave every muscle in your body aching.

Right now, you’re standing in front of the mirror, sweat dripping down your back, feet crammed into the Level B heels that feel like medieval torture devices.

“Again,” Nikky snaps, clapping her hands.

You bite back a groan and go through the combo one more time. She stops you halfway.

Point your toes. Shoulders back. You’re not walking, you’re performing.”

Nikky claps her hands sharply, her eyes narrowing at you through the mirror.

“Y/N” her voice cuts like glass. “You look dead. That can’t happen. Fix it. I don’t care if you’re tired, I don’t care if your feet hurt. The stage doesn’t care. If you can’t sell it, you might as well not be here.”

She paces closer, arms crossed.

“You have the voice, you have the presence, so why are you dancing like you’re dragging chains behind you? Again. With energy this time. Make me believe you want this.”

The music restarts, pounding through the speakers. You swallow hard, force your shoulders back, and go again every move sharper, cleaner, even as your legs scream in protest.

Nikky doesn’t smile. But she nods, just barely. “That’s more like it. Don’t lose it now. Again.”

By the time practice ends, you’re exhausted, frustrated, and ready to throw the stupid heels in the trash.

That night, long after the others have gone to bed, you sneak back into the practice room. The mirrors are fogged slightly from the earlier session, the only sound your footsteps echoing on the floor. You’re halfway through the routine when the door creaks open.

Dani steps in, hair messy, hoodie sleeves pushed up. She holds two bottles of water.

“You’re still here?” she asks softly.

“Yeah,” you sigh, sinking to the floor. “Nikky’s on me about every little thing. I swear if she says ‘point your toes’ one more time”

Dani laughs quietly, setting the bottles down. “You’re good, you know. You just… overthink it.”

You look at her, surprised. “What are you doing here?”

She shrugs. “Couldn’t sleep.” Then, after a pause: “Want some help?”

“With… dance?” you ask, raising an eyebrow.

She shakes her head. “Kind of. I’ll help you with your dance if you help me with vocals. Deal?”

You blink, then grin. “Oh, so this is like a trade?”

Dani nods, smiling just a little. “Yeah. We’ll both get better. Together.”

You take the water bottle from her, clinking it lightly against hers. “Deal.”

That night, you two run through the routine slowly, her guiding you through steps while you correct her pitch when she hums the chorus to your assigned song.

It’s the first time you realize how easy it is to be around her, how naturally you click when it’s just the two of you.

The next day, the practice room feels different less heavy, less frustrating. You’ve been running the move over and over with Dani’s tips echoing in your head.

The music plays, and this time your body just gets it. Your heel pivots cleanly, your arms hit sharp, and you land the final pose without wobbling.

You stare at your reflection for a beat, then whip around to Dani.

“I got it! Dani, I actually got it!”

She barely has time to react before you leap into her arms, wrapping her in a tight hug.

“Thank you, seriously, I would’ve lost my mind without you,” you say breathlessly.

Dani sighs, but you can see the corner of her mouth twitching upward. She tries to act unbothered, but that tiny smile gives her away.

“Yeah, yeah,” she mutters, patting your back lightly. “You’re welcome. Don’t get used to it.”

But she doesn’t pull away right away and neither do you.

For the rest of day eyes linger through the dance studio, the tension cutting through the room as your eyes would drift to hers. You start to notice her features, her beautiful curly hair, the deep brown in her iris, the way she huff when she missed a step.

You weren't intentionally looking, its just second nature for you, like you trying to focus by there was a magnetic pull to her. Even after practice, your eye follow her. Your brain mapping her face.

The dorm is swallowed by silence, the kind that presses into your bones. The city outside feels miles away just a distant hum beyond the windows.

You lie on your bed, muscles screaming in protest after hours of practice. The ache in your body is nothing new, but tonight, it feels heavier. Your throat’s dry, your stomach growls quietly, but the thought of getting up feels like climbing a mountain.

Why does it always have to be this hard? you wonder, staring at the ceiling. I’m supposed to be chasing dreams, but right now, all I want is to disappear.

A soft knock breaks through the stillness.

Your heart jumps...could it be Dani?

You sit up slowly. She’s there, barely a silhouette in the dim light, clutching a crumpled paper bag like it’s a lifeline.

“I, uh… found some snacks leftover from dinner,” she says, voice low, hesitant as if sharing a secret.

You blink, surprised. “You brought me food?”

She shrugs, cheeks flushing under the soft glow. “You looked like you could use it. And… I hate eating alone.”

Funny, you think, I never noticed how much I hate it too.

She steps inside, sitting down beside you with the bag between you both. You pull out spicy chicken wings, the smell making your stomach clench with hunger you’d been ignoring.

You break the silence, voice soft. “Thanks, Dani. Really.”

She shrugs again but doesn’t meet your eyes.

You both eat quietly, the only sound the faint rustling of wrappers and the city’s distant murmur.

After a while, Dani finally speaks, barely above a whisper. “Do you ever miss home?”

You swallow the lump in your throat. “Every day. New York’s noise, the chaos… it’s all I’ve ever known. It’s part of me, whether I like it or not.”

She fidgets with the hem of her sleeve, eyes distant. “I don’t talk about home much. Feels like there’s no one there who really sees me.”

Her words hit deeper than you expected.

You reach out, your fingers brushing hers. “You’re not invisible to me.”

She looks at your hand, then finally meets your gaze, vulnerability flickering in her eyes. “I’m scared,” she admits quietly. “Scared that I don’t belong here. That maybe I’m not enough.”

Your chest tightens. The words mirror your own fears, the ones you bury under music and routines.

“You’re more than enough, You're the best dancer here” you say, voice steady despite the tremor inside. “I get it feeling like you have to be perfect, like you’re always one step behind. But here… you’re allowed to be real. To mess up.”

She exhales slowly, a tear glinting in the low light. “Thanks for saying that. I don’t know why, but with you, it feels easier.”

You squeeze her hand gently. “Me too. We’re both fighting battles no one else sees.”

For a moment, the weight in your chest feels lighter, shared between you both, no longer yours alone. The clock ticks on, but in this quiet space, something shifts. You don’t have to pretend anymore.

The both you finished your wings and went to bed together, drifting peacefully.

The more you and Dani hangout and talk, the more things change, it starts subtle with Daniela slowly become more open and loud with the other girls. She would joke with them more, letting her shell break and enjoy the moments with the girls.

Dani used to sit on the edge of conversations, quiet, tucked away, always listening but never talking. But tonight, something’s different. The common room is alive with chatter, Sophia perched on the couch like the group’s big sister, Megan cracking dumb jokes that make Karlee nearly choke on her water.

And there’s Dani, sitting right in the middle of it all.

She laughs at one of Megan’s ridiculous comments, her eyes crinkling as she presses a hand over her mouth. Her shoulders are looser, her voice just a little louder than usual.

Then Megan groans, flopping back on the couch. “My legs are dead. If Nikky yells at me one more time about ‘energy,’ I’m quitting.”

Karlee laughs. “Same. I swear she can hear me breathing wrong.”

Dani, who’s usually quiet during these rants, suddenly smirks. “She’s probably at home right now, practicing how to glare at us in the mirror.”

The group bursts out laughing, surprised at her joke.

“She’s finally talking!” Megan teases.

“Shut up,” Dani mutters, nudging her with a small grin.

Sophia smiles knowingly. “It’s nice hearing you laugh more, Dani.”

Dani shrugs, still smiling, but you can see the way her eyes brighten at the words. From your spot leaning against the doorway, you watch quietly.

She’s different when she’s happy, you think.

Her laughter is softer than most, but it’s the kind that spreads, real, warm, unfiltered. It feels like a rare glimpse of her without the walls she always keeps up.

When she catches your gaze for half a second, she looks away with a faint smile, one she tries to hide, but doesn’t quite manage. And for some reason, your chest feels warm in a way you can’t explain.

Dani turns and shrugs as she goes back to the conversation. She smirks pretending to be serious. “Just saying… wouldn’t even be surprised if she has a ‘how to traumatize trainees’ vision board somewhere.”

Even you can’t stop laughing. “Wow, she’s finally one of us.”

Dani shoots you a playful look. “Took me long enough, huh?”

It became a habit for you two to be together anywhere. The pratice room, the vocal room, studio's, everywhere. The two you even share breakfast together. The dinning room buzzes with morning chatter, the clinking of plates, the smell of scrambled eggs and toast filling the air.

You and Dani sit across from each other at the far end of the table. She’s still half-asleep, hoodie sleeves covering her hands as she picks at her pancakes. You steal bites from her plate between mouthfuls of your own food, smirking every time she glares playfully.

“Can I have some of your eggs?” you ask, already reaching over with your fork.

Dani sighs, but her lips twitch upward. “Fine. Just don’t take all of it.”

By the time you both finish, you’re laughing quietly at some inside joke about Nikky’s eternal death stares during dance practice.

That’s when Megan plops down beside you, grinning like she’s just caught you committing a crime. “Well, good morning, lovebirds.”

Karlee joins in immediately, sitting next to Dani with a dramatic gasp. “Oh my god, did you two have breakfast together? Alone?”

Dani’s head snaps up, eyes wide. “Wha—no! We just… it wasn’t like that!”

Ezrela leans across the table, smirking. “Sure it wasn’t. You guys looked real cozy when I walked in.”

Sophia chuckles from the other side. “Honestly, I think it’s cute. You two are practically joined at the hip anyway.”

Dani’s cheeks turn pink instantly, and she buries her face in her sleeves. “Stop,” she mutters, voice muffled.

You just laugh, resting your chin in your hand. “See, this is why she’s blushing. Because you guys can’t help yourselves.”

Megan wiggles her eyebrows. “Nah, she’s blushing because she likes you.”

Dani swats at Megan weakly, her face now a full shade of red. “Shut up!”

The group bursts out laughing. Even though Dani tries to hide behind her sleeves, you catch the small, shy smile tugging at her lips.

The laughter slowly dies down as the others move on to a different topic, but Dani still has her face half-buried in her sleeves.

You lean a little closer, your voice softer so only she can hear. “Hey,” you murmur. “They’re just teasing. Don’t let it get to you.”

She peeks out, cheeks still flushed pink. “Easy for you to say. You don’t look like a tomato right now.”

You chuckle, shaking your head. “For what it’s worth… I think it’s kinda cute when you blush.”

Her eyes widen slightly, but then a sly smile curls at her lips. “Oh? So you like making me blush, huh?”

You blink, thrown off. “I—I didn’t say that—”

Dani leans closer just enough for her voice to drop teasingly. “Wow, Y/N, you’re blushing now.”

You feel the heat creep up your neck, your brain short-circuiting as you try to find a comeback. “I—shut up—this isn’t fair!”

Dani just grins, finally leaning back in her seat with a quiet laugh. “Guess I’m not the only one who gets flustered anymore.”

You bury your face in your hands, groaning. “Unbelievable…”

And Dani? She just looks far too proud of herself.

Karlee suddenly waves over to you both, “Hey, we’re heading to the practice room early. You coming?”

Dani glances at you, still flushed but smiling.

You nod, “Yeah, let’s go.”

As you stand up, Dani grabs your sleeve lightly a quick, subtle touch that says more than words.

You walk side by side down the hallway toward the practice room, the soft echo of your footsteps blending with the distant music and chatter of other trainees. The lingering teasing from breakfast feels less like a spotlight now and more like a warm glow surrounding the two of you.

Dani’s fingers still lightly grip your sleeve, and you can feel the slight tremor in her touch. She glances at you again, eyes searching yours, hesitation flickering just beneath her confident exterior.

You break the silence first, voice low. “Breakfast was brutal, huh?”

She chuckles softly, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Yeah. But I think I’m starting to like the attention.”

You smirk. “Only if you admit you kinda like blushing in front of me.”

Her cheeks flare a little, but she meets your gaze steadily. “Maybe. But don’t think I’m going to make it easy for you.”

The corners of your lips twitch upward. “Wouldn’t expect anything less.”

As you enter the practice room, the music shifts, an upbeat track filling the space, pulsing with energy. The rest of the group is already there, warming up, but you and Dani find your own little bubble amidst the chaos.

Nikky walks over, eyes sharp as ever. “Ready to show me what you’ve got, Y/N?”

Your heart pounds, but you steady your breath. This is your moment.

The music starts, a slow, pulsing beat that fills the room, echoing around the mirrors.

You move.

Every step precise, every glide fluid. You channel every ounce of emotion, frustration, determination, passion into the dance. The heels no longer feel like torture; they become part of your expression, a challenge you’re meeting head-on.

Nikky watches silently, arms crossed, her usual stern expression unreadable. You finish with a sharp spin and land your final pose perfectly, breathing hard, chest heaving, sweat glistening on your skin.

For a long moment, there’s silence. Then Nikky’s lips curl into the smallest of smiles. “Finally.”

You blink, stunned.

“Your dance looked like someone who wanted to be there. You didn’t just go through the motions.” She steps closer, voice softer but firm. “Keep this up. You’re stronger than you think.”

Your chest swells with pride, this is the first real compliment you’ve gotten from her. Dani, watching from the side, beams at you, eyes shining with admiration.

You feel it the hard work, the pain, the late nights, finally paying off.

And for once, you believe you belong.

The dorm was quiet now, the hum of the city outside softened by thick walls and closed windows. Your shared room felt colder than usual, the faint moonlight filtering through the curtains casting long shadows on the floor. You lay awake, heart still racing from the day’s breakthrough, muscles still aching but your mind refusing to rest.

You heard footsteps walk towards your bed. Dani, your roommate stepped inside quietly, her eyes heavy with sleeplessness. Tonight, her usual calm was replaced by something fragile, almost hesitant.

“I couldn’t sleep,” she whispered, voice trembling slightly.

Without a word, you patted the empty space beside you, inviting her in. She crawled in silently, curling her body close against yours.

Her warmth pressed through the fabric of your shirt, a steady, calming presence. The rhythm of her breath slowed, syncing with yours as the tension in both your bodies began to ease.

After a long pause, Dani’s voice came soft and vulnerable. “I just… find you warm.”

You smiled gently, brushing a stray hair from her forehead. “Good. Because I’m not going anywhere.”

Across the room, Karlee your other roommate, peeked through the her blanket. Her eyes softened as she took in the quiet closeness between you and Dani.

She said nothing.

Choosing instead to let this fragile moment remain sacred, Karlee slipped back into her own space, closing her eyes.

Wrapped in warmth and quiet trust, you and Dani drifted together into a peaceful sleep, the worries of the day melting away in the comfort of each other’s presence.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The sunlight spilled in gently through the thin white curtains, cutting soft golden lines across the dorm room floor. Your eyes fluttered open slowly, consciousness returning like the tide. And then you noticed it, Dani’s arm still wrapped tightly around your waist, her leg tangled with yours beneath the blanket, her forehead pressed softly to your collarbone.

You could feel her breath on your skin, warm and even.

Neither of you moved. There was no shock, no rush to pull away. Just that quiet stillness of two people who had grown used to waking up like this. It wasn’t planned, but it also wasn’t strange anymore. Not to you. Not to her. Not even to Karlee, who was brushing her teeth in the corner and only shot you a knowing smirk in the mirror.

No words were needed.

Eventually, Dani stirred, mumbling something into your shoulder. “Mm… what time is it?”

You smiled, voice still heavy with sleep. “Time to pretend we don’t sleep like a married couple every night.”

She groaned dramatically and rolled onto her back, arms stretching above her head. “We’re gonna be late again.”

You both got dressed in comfortable sweats and tied your hair up, grabbing protein bars before heading down to the dance studio, where a few other trainees were already warming up. Sophia offered you both a wave, and Megan raised her eyebrows suggestively the moment you walked in side by side.

“You guys sleep in the same bed again?” she teased, tossing a resistance band over her shoulder.

Dani blushed, but rolled her eyes. “Don’t start, Megan.”

Ezrela giggled from the corner. “Girl, we all know you two are basically dating without the label.”

You shrugged, grinning. “If the shoe fits.”

Dani nudged you in the side, face pink and smiling.

But before anyone could add more to the teasing, Missy walked into the room with a clipboard in hand, followed by a camera crew and a few unfamiliar faces.

The room fell silent.

“Good morning,” Missy said, her voice crisp. “I know the last few weeks have been exhausting, but today marks a turning point.”

She looked up from the clipboard, eyes scanning the group.

“You’re officially going public.”

Whispers broke out instantly.

“You'll all be introduced to the world through a survival show called Dream Academy,” she continued. “Every step from here on out will be documented. Your challenges, your growth, your ranking. This is how we’ll form the group. This is how the world will get to know you.”

Your heart skipped a beat. You glanced at Dani beside you, whose jaw had gone slightly slack. Her fingers twitched nervously at her sides.

This was it.

No more training in the dark. No more dancing in silence.

The world was watching now.

It was a new chapter in your life, after training for about 6 months, you were going to be public. Something in your gut stirred. This odd feeling of excitement mixed with fear, anxiety. Cause, its not just the execs you have to please but the public.

You look around and see beautiful girls, gorgeous, delicate, graceful. They carry the kind of elegance that fits perfectly into what the industry has always wanted. Long lashes, soft voices, silhouettes made for girlish charm and sparkle.

But you… you weren’t that.

You had something else. A duality. An edge. People called it androgynous, like you were a coin that could flip either way depending on the lighting, the styling, the camera angle.

From the right, you were sharp-jawed and fierce, all swagger and shadows, like the hero in a coming-of-age film who steals the show without trying. From the left, you were soft-eyed and angelic, your lips curved just gently enough to blur the lines.

You never quite fit into one box, too handsome to be dainty, too pretty to be “one of the boys.” Some called it a gift. Others didn’t know where to place you.

And in this room, full of international beauty and gloss, you felt it more than ever. The unspoken question. Would the world love you for not fitting in? Or ignore you because you didn’t?

Dani glanced over at you, her lips twitching into that small, private smile she reserved just for you.

The thoughts race more, cause how world see Dani, You seen her through her lows, and her highs. You know her like the back of your hand. The struggle and disconnect with her culture, and you're scared, worried that they would push narrative against her.

The room pulsed with excitement. Girls ran in and out, waving phones, squealing over texts from home, rehearsing poses in the mirrors, already thinking about what their first impression would be.

The announcement had hit like lightning: You were going public. The Dream Academy survival show was real, and filming would begin in just a few days.

Your stomach had dropped the second Missy said it. You smiled on the outside. Nodded like the rest. But as soon as the crowd thinned, your body began to shut down.

The hallway was cold and too quiet. You gripped the edge of a cabinet, heart pounding so hard it echoed in your ears. Your breath caught in your throat, short, shallow gasps that refused to slow down.

You crouched down, your back against the wall, vision tunneling.

You didn’t belong. Not with girls like this, not with girls who looked effortlessly elegant, girls who could flip hair and bat lashes and slide into whatever "feminine" image the cameras would eat up.

You were sharp edges, duality. Sometimes too boyish. Sometimes too soft. You didn't know what they would want from you now that the whole world would be watching.

“Y/N?”

The voice broke through the haze. You blinked, and Dani was there, wide-eyed, worried, kneeling down in front of you.

“Are you—hey, you’re not okay.”

You shook your head, hands trembling.

Without another word, Dani leaned forward and kissed you.

Quick. Firm. Real.

You froze, not from fear, but from shock. It was grounding. A jolt that pulled you back to the surface of your own body.

Her lips stayed for just a second longer than they needed to. And then she pulled back, breathless.

You stared at her, chest still heaving but no longer spiraling.

She flushed instantly, eyes darting away. “I-I read somewhere that kissing helps during panic attacks. Something about dopamine? Pressure? Grounding? I don’t know, I just…”

You blinked. “That wasn’t in any textbook.”

She groaned, hiding her face in her hands. “Okay, maybe I just… panicked too.”

You laughed, hoarse and tired but real. “You panicked by kissing me?”

Dani peeked at you through her fingers. “It worked, didn’t it?”

You nodded, lips twitching into a smirk. “Yeah. It worked.”

And for a moment, the panic didn’t matter. Not the cameras, not the competition, not the image you didn’t know how to fit.

Later that night, you're lying on your bed, the moonlight from the window stretching across the wooden floor. Dani is curled up next to you again, closer than ever. Her hand brushes against yours every few minutes, and neither of you pulls away. But neither of you says anything either.

Your heart’s still racing, but not from fear anymore.

From something else.

From her.

From what that kiss meant, or maybe didn’t mean.

You want to ask, Did you mean it? Was it just to help me breathe? Or was it because you wanted to? But the question stays trapped in your throat.

Just then, your phone buzzes. A new schedule. You both sit up to check it.

“Mission 1 Groups + Parts Drop Tomorrow 9AM. Be Ready.” “Filming Begins in Two Weeks.”

A knot forms in your stomach again, but it’s different this time. Real. Not panic, anticipation. Exposure.

This was it.

Dream Academy was no longer a quiet training program. It was becoming a show. A stage. A judgment. And the world was about to see you, and everything about you.

You glance over at Dani. She’s biting her lip, eyes darting across the schedule, fingers nervously tapping the side of her phone.

"You okay?" you ask.

She nods slowly. “Yeah. Just… It’s real now. People are gonna watch us. Pick favorites. Compare us. Ship us.”

You blink. “Ship us?”

Dani’s eyes widen like she hadn’t meant to say that. “I mean—I just mean, like, the TikToks. The way everyone already acts like we’re a couple. Fan service right, anything to debut”

You laugh awkwardly. “Right. That.”

And for a split second, the silence between you hums with tension.

But then a knock hits the door.

It’s Missy flanked by a production assistant with a clipboard.

“Girls,” she says with a soft smile, “Can we talk privately?”

Missy leads you and Dani to a small studio room downstairs, the walls lined with cameras and lighting gear. She sits you both down across from her.

“We need to ask something sensitive,” she begins, folding her hands. “There’s… been a lot of buzz among the producers after reviewing rehearsal footage, dorm cams, and social media activity.”

You glance at Dani, your chest tightening.

Missy continues, gentle but firm: “You two have incredible chemistry. You’re trending already in our private test groups. But we need to know—are you in a relationship?”

Dani stiffens beside you. You feel the air leave the room.

You don’t know what to say. Yes? No? Not yet? Not really?

You stay silent, and Missy nods, understanding.

“Don’t worry. We’re not here to control that. But the angle, the storylines, it affects how we frame both of you going forward. If it’s romantic, we need to be ready to either cover it up.. or protect you from the backlash. Especially you, Y/N. You know the duality is part of your appeal.”

You flinch at the word appeal.

Dani clears her throat quietly. “Um yah... its nothing, We are NOTHING so don't worry. but we respect the heads up"

Your heart drop, I mean you weren't expecting a proposal or a date, but for her to straight up deny it was heart breaking. Like what was she doing for the past month, flirting and building the tension for her to just pull the rug.

Missy face shows a hint of sadness as she noticed your pain. “Of course. Just be honest-with each other first.”

After that you decided distance, just time away from her to clear your thoughts, trying to make sure you weren't imagining the late night cuddles and that kiss, that fucking kiss.

The studio is buzzing with stylists, cameras, and squeals of both excitement and fear. Before going public you guys where getting an official make over. Girls are in chairs, foils in their hair, measuring tapes around their heads as staff circle like bees.

You’re seated in a sleek black salon chair, staring at yourself in the mirror while a stylist flips through reference photos on a tablet.

Humberto walks by and smiles. “We’re thinking bold for you,” she says. “Short, like girl crush vibe, something that shows your jawline. Really lets that duality pop. You okay with that?”

You hesitate. Your hair has always been part of your identity. A safety net. But you nod slowly. “Yeah. Let’s do it.”

The stylist grins and picks up the scissors.

That’s when Ezrela, sprawled across the couch with a bowl of grapes like she’s royalty, smirks. “Ohhh, cutting your hair that short?” she teases, voice playful but loud enough for everyone to hear. “Shouldn’t you ask your girlfriend first?”

Laughter ripples across the room. You nearly choke on your own breath.

“Ez!” Dani says sharply from across the room, halfway into her own styling cape, her cheeks turning pink instantly.

“She’s not—!” you start, but your voice cracks halfway, too caught off guard.

Ezrela just wiggles her eyebrows. “I’m just saying, if someone looked at me like Dani looks at you, I’d at least send a text before going full transformation mode.”

Megan cackles. “They’re gonna have to change your couple name after this—short hair, new era!”

Dani throws a towel at Megan. “I swear, you guys are the worse"

But you catch her eyes in the mirror.

She’s smiling, soft and small, even while pretending to be annoyed. Her gaze lingers longer than it should. And for the briefest moment, your heartbeat slows under the scissors.

When the first lock falls to the floor, she whispers just loud enough for you to hear:

“You’ll look good. You always do.”

And your stomach flips in the most dangerous way.

You just scoff, pushing her compliments in the back of your head, trying not to let it phase you. "Like you care" You say coldly.

Daniela looked at you blank eyed, confused with the sudden coldness. Usually you would blush and joke back, not whatever coldness this was. Either way Dani took a deep breath and rubbed it off like a little bruise.

You sit in the chair, bits of your old self scattered on the floor in soft, fallen strands. The stylist steps back, gives a satisfied hum, and gently turns the chair toward the full-length mirror.

Your breath catches.

It’s not short short, not buzzed or shaved like you feared. It’s more structured, stylized. An edgy, semi-squid-game bob, ending just above your shoulders. Soft layers frame your cheekbones, giving your already sharp features even more bite. Feminine, but not too much. Masculine, but not overly so.

Just… you.

The room quiets a little as people take notice.

“Ohhh damn,” Megan says, pushing up from the couch. “You look like you’d ruin my life in the best way.”

“I love it!” Karlee beams, phone already in hand. “You look like someone straight out of a K-drama.”

You turn around slowly, trying to gauge the reactions—until your eyes lock on her. Dani stands still, halfway through curling her own hair, hands frozen. She's looking at you like she’s never seen you before.

Your stomach twists.

She blinks once. Then again. A soft wow slips out, barely audible, but you catch it. Everyone does.

Ezrela grins from the side. “Dani has stopped working.”

“Shut up,” Dani mutters, cheeks turning rose-pink. But she doesn’t look away. Instead, she steps closer. Her hand reaching for your hair.

You guys aren't anything so best to act that way. She said you were nothing. And maybe she didn’t mean it. Maybe it was nerves. Maybe she was scared. But it hurt. Still does.

You take a step back, clearly avoiding her, everyone notices the tension between the two of you, the way you clearly avoided her touch.

You turn toward Megan. "So Megan, Whats the verdict" You ask, trying to keep your voice light, but there’s a vulnerability in your chest you can’t shake.

Megan doesn’t miss a beat. “You look like a runway model who moonlights as a heartbreaker,” she grins, grabbing your hands and twirling you around. “10/10. Would simp.”

The room laughs, warm and buzzing, but Dani is stone silent. You feel it before you even see it. her stare.

She confused, those teasing comments where hers to give, this conversations we reserved between the two of you, but for once she felt outsider with you. Her mouth is slightly open like she’s about to say something, but nothing comes. Instead, her brows twitch downward. Just a touch.

Jealousy.

Ezrela catches the look. "Uh-oh,” she whispers behind her water bottle. “Dani’s rebooting again.”

Dani clears her throat sharply. “You look nice” she says, voice clipped.

Megan raises a brow, amused. “NICE ?, she looks hot. Let her live.”

Dani looks away. “I am letting her live.”

You don’t say anything. Just smile at Megan again, letting her adjust the collar of your outfit, soaking in her loud praise and attention like armor. Across the room, Dani fidgets, suddenly quiet again. You catch her watching from the mirror eyes clouded, lip tugged between her teeth.

For the past week, you did everything in your power to avoid Dani.

You started waking up earlier just to use the bathroom before she stirred, slipped out of practice as soon as warm-ups ended, and lingered a little too long around Megan and the others. It was easier that way. Safer.

You didn’t trust yourself around her, not after what she said, not after that kiss, and definitely not after the way she looked at you like the kiss meant nothing.

Because the truth was, you wanted her to react. You wanted her to care. And she did. But not in the way you needed.

Now she just watched you from a distance, shoulders tense, eyes dull. She didn’t say anything, didn’t try to pull you aside. It was like she was afraid to. Or maybe... she thought you didn’t want her to.

And maybe she was right.

Still, there were moments quick, fleeting, unbearable, when you’d catch her gaze from across the studio mirror, her expression cracking for a breath. She looked tired. Worn. Lost.

And maybe that’s what broke you the most. Because you were tired too.

Dani stood stiff at the corner of the room, her arms crossed, jaw tight. You could feel her eyes boring into you, but you didn’t look. You couldn’t.

So instead, you leaned in closer to Megan, letting out a soft laugh as you nudged her shoulder.

“You have to take me surfing once,” you grinned, voice light, playful, the same tone you used with Dani, once.

Megan laughed, flashing her signature dimpled smile. “You bet. Maybe you could visit me in Hawaii, you know... a little vacation. Just the two of us.”

“Would love that,” you teased, lips curling into a smirk that didn’t reach your eyes. You patted your thigh. “C’mon, surfer girl. Make it official.”

With a laugh, Megan dropped herself onto your lap without a second thought, wrapping one arm loosely around your shoulder. The others hooted and whistled in teasing approval.

“You two are a mess” Ezrela muttered from the side, half-amused and half-serious.

But all you saw out of the corner of your eye was Dani.

Frozen. Still. Her jaw clenched, brows low, mouth slightly parted like she wanted to speak but couldn't find the words. She looked at you like you’d just ripped the floor out from under her.

But she didn’t say anything.

She turned her back instead. Walked out. Quiet.

And your chest ached but you didn’t move. You didn’t chase her. You just stayed still, arms around Megan, eyes hollow.

Because she was the one who said you were nothing. And you were just playing your part. And so was Megan.

Megan gives you a knowing smirk as if to say the it’s working.

Later that night, you sat cross-legged on your bed, scrolling through your phone while Megan lounged beside you, hair wrapped in a towel, a mischievous smile playing on her lips.

“So,” she said, popping a grape into her mouth. “How long are we keeping up the ‘jealousy tour’?”

You raised an eyebrow at her. “Is it working?”

Megan laughed. “Oh, babe, she looks like she wants to launch me into the sun.”

You smirked, trying to hide how satisfying that felt. “Good.”

“Is this the part where I tell you it’s toxic?” Megan asked, tilting her head.

“Maybe,” you said, tossing a pillow at her. “But you’re still doing it.”

She caught the pillow with one hand and shrugged. “Because I love drama. And because she hurt you.”

There was a pause. A quiet beat between two girls playing a game they both knew had consequences.

“Are you sure this is what you want?” Megan asked more gently this time, eyes meeting yours. “You’re not just… avoiding getting hurt again?”

You exhaled slowly. “I don’t know. But she called us nothing. Like we were just… mistakes.”

“She’s lying to herself,” Megan said simply. “I’ve seen the way she looks at you. Like you’re the beginning and the end.”

You didn’t respond.

Instead, the next day, you and Megan sat a little closer during breakfast. She rested her chin on your shoulder as you scrolled through your phone. You let her hold your hand in front of everyone, casually, like it meant nothing. You even wore her hoodie to rehearsals.

And Dani?

Dani barely looked at you.

But when she did, it was a flash of pain. A twitch of her jaw. Her eyes speaking a hundred things her mouth never would.

At lunch, Megan leaned in and whispered something in your ear it was a dumb joke, but you laughed loudly, more than necessary. You could feel Dani watching.

“I swear she’s going to crack soon,” Megan whispered.

“Good,” you said, masking the twist in your stomach.

But that night, when you were alone, and Megan had gone to bed early, you caught Dani sitting outside on the balcony. Alone. Elbows on her knees. Staring out into the dark.

And for the first time in days… You weren’t sure who was hurting more.

You feel pathetic, I mean asking your friend to act as a couple to make a girl who doesn’t want you jealous. It’s stupid.

The dorm hallway is dim, the hum of the air conditioning the only sound besides your footsteps. You’re on your way to grab your charger from your room when her voice cuts through the quiet.

“Y/N.”

You freeze. You don’t have to turn to know it’s her. Dani.

You haven’t really talked not since the haircut. Not since the look. Not since the meeting with missy.

You take a slow breath, turn around. She’s standing just a few steps away, arms crossed tightly over her chest, jaw set.

“We need to talk.”

You blink. “About?”

She stares, like she can’t believe you’re playing dumb. “You’ve been acting weird around me. You and Megan”

“I’ve been busy,” you snap, too quickly.

“Bullshit,” she says, voice rising. “You won’t even look at me unless Megan’s around, like what, like I don’t exist?”

You feel something in your chest twist. “You’re the one who made it clear we’re nothing. I’m just respecting that.”

Her face falls for a second, like you’d slapped her.

“Y/N, I-” she starts, then breaks off, running her fingers through her hair. “God, why are you doing this? Why do you act like I don’t care about you?”

You let out a bitter laugh. “Because you don’t! Or maybe you do, but only when no one else is watching.”

“That’s not fair.”

“No, what’s not fair is kissing someone in a panic attack and then pretending it was a therapy technique.”

Dani’s mouth parts, then closes. Her cheeks are flushed, breathing shallow.

“You think it was just some trick?” she hisses. “You think I don’t lie awake at night feeling every second of that kiss replaying in my head?”

Your breath catches. Then the silence hangs too loud. Your heartbeat is deafening.

She steps closer, something wild and sharp in her eyes. “You think I don’t feel anything? You think I don’t look at you and want—want to scream because you’re everywhere and I don’t know what to do with it?”

Your voice comes out lower. “Then do something.”

She blinks.

Then- She’s kissing you.

Hard. Angry. Desperate.

Your back hits the wall with a dull thud, and you gasp into her mouth. Her hands are gripping your hoodie, your fingers curling into her waist before you can think better of it. It’s messy, too much teeth, not enough air but it’s real.

It’s everything you’ve both been swallowing for weeks. Frustration. Confusion. Want. Fear.

She pulls away just long enough to whisper, “I hate you.”

You don’t hesitate. “I hate you more.”

Then your lips crash together again.

————————————————————————————---------------

Dani runs a hand through her hair, eyes fixed on the floor. After a long pause, she finally speaks, voice soft and raw.

“I have to be honest with you... I said it was nothing to Missy because I was scared.”

You blink, surprised. She swallows hard, then looks up at you, vulnerability bleeding through her usual guarded expression.

“I thought… maybe you didn’t feel the same way. That you were just being nice, or pretending because you felt sorry for me.”

Her hands twist nervously in her lap.

“So I pushed it down. Pretended it wasn’t real. Told her it was nothing because I didn’t want to get my hopes up or get hurt.”

Her eyes meet yours now, searching.

“But the truth is… I’ve never stopped thinking about you. About that kiss. About you.”

A quiet sigh escapes her lips.

“I was scared you didn’t want me. So I tried to convince myself it was easier to say we were nothing.”

You reach out, your fingers brushing against hers, grounding both of you in the moment.

“I’m here, Dani. And I feel the same way.”

Her lips trembled, then softened into the smallest, most fragile smile. One of relief. One of disbelief. Like she'd been waiting her whole life to exhale.

“For once,” she whispered, eyes searching yours, “maybe we can stop pretending.”

No more running. No more biting back feelings to protect fragile pride. Just honesty, soft and raw, resting between your bodies like a fragile truce.

The tension broke gently, not with fireworks or screams, but like the first morning light slow, golden, and quiet. The kind of peace that wrapped itself around both of you, breathing warmth into a world that had been cold for too long.

Now, you lay there, still tangled up in sheets and confessions. Dani’s head rested against your shoulder, her fingers tracing lazy circles along your arm. Your breathing slowed, gradually syncing with hers, an unconscious dance that made it impossible to tell where she ended and you began. Her breath brushed softly against your neck.

And then “Okay, so what’s stage three of the jealousy pla-oh my god.”

Your eyes flew open.

Megan stood at the doorway, mid-step, eyebrows climbing into her hairline as she stared at the very obvious image in front of her: two girls wrapped up in each other’s limbs, faces still kissed with sleep, Dani’s hand possessively resting across your stomach.

Dani groaned, burying her face into your neck. “Do not engage.”

You blinked, still half-asleep. “Megan?”

“Is this…” Megan motioned vaguely. “Is this the soft launch or the full release?”

You opened your mouth, closed it, then opened it again.

“We’re soft-launched,” Dani mumbled groggily. “Please go.”

Megan grinned like the devil in lip gloss. “I knew I didn’t have to commit to the bit for much longer.”

Then she pulled out her phone.

“Megan, no-”

The flash went off before either of you could react. Megan’s cackle echoed down the hall.

“Group chat’s gonna eat this up!” she called out.

You flopped back into the pillow with a groan.

Dani just laughed quietly against you. “We’re doomed.”

Your phone quickly buzzed with texts.

The Group Chat: [7:52AM] 📸 Megan: “Woke up and caught these two in 4K. Guess who’s not ‘just friends’ anymore?” 💬 Karlee: OMGGGGG I KNEW IT 💬 Ezrela: They look like a romcom poster. I’m actually gonna scream. 💬 Sophia: I’m not surprised. I’m just disappointed I didn’t get the scoop first. 💬 Sophia: I thought we weren’t dating inside the dorms 😇 💬 Karlee: Sophia shut up you ship them more than anyone here lol

—

You and Dani stared at the screen, eyes wide in horror, still lying in bed like your limbs hadn’t gotten the memo that panic was happening.

“This is it,” you whispered, “we’re going to die.”

Dani grabbed the pillow and slammed it over her face. “Tell me this is a dream. Please. This is a dream, right?”

You snorted, trying to hold in a laugh. “Unfortunately, no. And Megan used portrait mode.”

Dani groaned again, muffled into the cotton. “She even got the lighting.”

There was a knock at the door.

“Open up, celebrity couple!” Megan chirped from the other side.

You both bolted upright, as if you hadn’t just been tangled up like a scene from a romance movie. You tried to detangle yourself from Dani gracefully. You failed.

The door creaked open before you could even reply.

“Don’t worry, I won’t leak it beyond the group,” Megan said, walking in with a mischievous grin. “Yet.”

“‘Yet?’” you and Dani said in unison.

Megan held up her hands innocently. “Unless someone wants to give me exclusive interview rights for when y’all finally go public-public.”

Dani threw a pillow at her. “Out!”

The both of you slowly got up to get ready, even through the midst of chaos and constant teasing from Megan. Today was the day that they released the groupings. You knew you were going to be in a vocal performance after ranking 2nd in vocal talent.

Everyone’s gathered. The atmosphere feels different today. Louder. Flashier. Hair curled. Nails done. Outfits coordinated like you’re all prepping for a magazine cover shoot.

But underneath the glamor, nerves buzz like static.

Someone cranks up a speaker in the corner. Laughter bubbles. Ezrela’s already joking with Megan and Celeste. Sophia is doing vocal warmups in the mirror. Lara’s pacing. Samara’s in the corner stretching like she’s about to run a marathon.

Dani’s beside you, sitting on the high chairs, her knee just barely brushing yours. Neither of you speak. You don’t have to. The tension between you has settled into something... quieter. But when your eyes meet, it still jolts.

You’re pulled in by the softness in her gaze, the one she only ever lets you see.

“I hate this part,” she finally whispers. “Before they split us up.”

You nod. “You think we’ll be in the same team?”

She smiles faintly. “Probably not. But if we are, guess I’ll just have to pretend not to get distracted every time you sing.”

You bump her knee with yours. “You’re the distracting one.”

The managers file in. Everyone snaps to attention. The air thickens.

A screen lights up with the header: Mission 1 – Showcase: Team Assignments

Whispers ripple across the room.

You feel Dani’s hand brush yours, quick and hidden. A quiet reminder. I’m here. No matter what team.

You exhale.

Then the first name flashes on the screen. This AI voice starts talking with the tension increasing. “This is the moment you’ve all been waiting for,” it announces. “Mission 1 is a Showcase Performance. Contestants will be divided into two vocal teams and two dance teams. Your goal: prove your skills, charisma, and teamwork on stage.”

The dance teams are called, and a sigh of relief comes up one you aren't in it, and two Dani is in a group with really good members.

After a while your name is called last, putting you in the vocal group performing still into you.

You guys weren't given much time to fully process this, just forced to take a quick scene of you acting surprised then sent into the vocal studio to work.

Your voice blends into the harmony as Celeste hits the softer runs, Nayoung pushes the high notes, and Sophia delivers effortless ad-libs. Each one brings a unique style while you anchor the harmonies with grit and clarity. Lara, the confident presence, takes lead choreography movements, occasionally snapping at you to hit your belting more.

The director circles, pausing on each member. He stops in front of you during a challenging bridge. “That tone is raw and real. Don’t over-polish it,” he advises before stepping away again.

In response, your confidence rises. You nail the transitions, deliver your lines with precision, and finish with a strong ad lib that echoes around the room.

Days blur into rehearsals filled with vocal drills and harmonies. Early mornings practicing runs with Sophia, laughing through breath exercises with Karlee, and late nights tuning your pitch until it rings perfect. You and Dani exchange glances during breaks, moments loaded with unspoken words and shared determination.

Lights dim, mirrors fog with your breath, and music pulses through the studio as the group perfects every beat, every note.

The day winds down. The dorm grows quiet as shadows stretch long across the floor. Later that night, you lie on your bed, muscles still humming from hours of practice. The quiet is broken by soft footsteps.

Dani slips in, her eyes tired but steady.

She settles beside you, slipping under the covers. Her arm drapes over your waist, fingers tracing gentle circles on your skin.

“I can’t sleep,” she whispers, voice barely audible. “Too much on my mind.”

You don’t answer, just let her draw closer.

Her breath warms your neck as she curls into you, a fragile comfort in the night’s stillness.

The world outside feels far away.

In that moment, it’s just the two of you, steady and quiet, holding on.

"Are you ready for tomorrow?" Her voice tickled your neck as she whispered, warm and soft against your skin.

You looked down into her eyes, searching for strength you weren’t sure you had. “Not really,” you admitted quietly. “It hasn’t settled with me yet.”

She smiled gently, brushing a stray lock of hair behind your ear. “It’s okay to be scared. I am, too.”

Your chest tightened at the honesty in her voice. Somehow, it made the looming pressure feel a little less suffocating.

She shifted closer, her hand finding yours in the dim light. “But whatever happens, we’re in this together.”

You squeezed her fingers back, the weight of the upcoming performance still heavy but softened by the quiet promise between you.

“Together,” you whispered.

And for the first time since the announcement, the fear didn’t feel so lonely. The both of you fall asleep in each other arms allowing the fears and vulnerability linger in the air.

Back in the changing room, megaphones of excitement and nerves mingle. Dani is pacing outside, evidently watching through the rehearsal room window. She glances over each time your team hits a note vaguely tense, posture rigid.

You catch those eyes in the reflection for a second but keep your head down. The memory of urban sprawl, your androgynous edge, and your late-night confession lingers behind the gaze. This is bigger now.

The stage lights flick on as you step into the booth-like rehearsal space. Your heart pounds in your ears. The opening guitar riff of “Still Into You” pulses, then the music swells.

You start strong, firm, standing tall in your haircut, voice clear and confident. You’re sharp, poised, electric. Dani, visible through the glass wall, inching closer to the glass when she sees you nail the bridge, breathless, but she doesn’t smile.

Your team launches into the harmony intersection, and final vocal riffs. As the music stops, echoes hang in the air.

You exit the studio, breathing fast. The team huddles, shared smiles, high-fives. Sophia squeezes your shoulder with pride. Samara mirrors your grin. Lara elbows you. Celeste giggles in relief.

Then you sense her. Dani. standing at the back, arms crossed, stoic expression but standing. You meet her gaze. A flicker of something there, approval? Regret? You’re not sure.

You swallow, turn away politely, shrug outwardly to the group. It’s done. But inside, your heart twists.

The evaluation room buzzes with tension as the results are announced. Your heart races when your name is called—you ranked 4th in the mission, securing immunity. Relief floods through you. You breathe easier, knowing you’re safe for now.

Son praised you, something you never expected from him.

You feel the story in every phrase,” he said, taking notes. “Especially you, Y/N—your duality and power worked really well in this arrangement.” "Especially with the fans, They really connected with this girl-crush look that Y/N has going"

A part of you is happy, ecstatic that you get to see the next mission. But when they announce Dani’s name isn’t among the top six, a sharp pang twists in your chest.

A part of you wants to rush to her side, to tell her it’s going to be okay. But you hold back, watching her mask it with a tight smile.

Then, Dani receives an invitation to the next round. The crowd cheers, and you exhale, happiness mixing with relief. She made it.

Back in the dorm, though, Dani’s different. She’s distant, staring blankly at the ceiling, fingers drumming a restless rhythm on her thigh. When you gently place a hand on her shoulder, she flinches slightly.

“Hey,” you say softly, “everything okay?”

Her eyes flicker to yours, vacant, unreadable. Then a small, strange smile tugs at her lips.

“Yeah,” she murmurs, voice oddly flat. “Just… tired.”

But the weight behind her words feels heavier than fatigue.

You wrap your arm around her, squeezing gently.

“Whatever it is, I’m here.”

She leans into you but doesn’t say more. You wonder what’s really going on inside her, and whether this mission and the pressure is starting to crack her in ways she won’t admit.

You step outside, craving the cool night air, trying to make sense of the knot tightening in your chest after Dani’s strange behavior. She’s already there, leaning against the railing, phone pressed to her ear. The soft glow from the screen illuminates her face, calm, almost too calm.

Her voice is low, tender. “Hey, babe... yeah, it’s been a long day.”

You freeze, heart pounding. You hadn’t meant to overhear.

But your heart stops... 'babe'

What did she mean by that, Who was she talking to. You stand frozen, breath caught in your throat, eyes blurred with a mix of shock and pain.

-Flashback-

The sun was low, bleeding gold across the cracked pavement of the basketball court. Your tiny hands still stung from dribbling, the ball lying forgotten by the bench. Sweat clung to your forehead, mixing with the faint smell of asphalt and cut grass.

Sophia wasn’t here yet. She never was, not right after practice. Her mom’s car always came a little late, but even then, your heart beat faster whenever you thought you heard the sound of tires on gravel.

To pass the time, you wandered to the edge of the court, where weeds and wildflowers fought their way through the fence. Your fingers found one, a small white daisy flower delicate and soft, like it didn’t belong in a place this rough.

You plucked a petal. “She loves me,” you whispered.

Another petal. “She loves me not.”

You didn’t even know what love really meant back then. Not in the way grown-ups talked about it. But you and your 5 year old heart knew you liked when Sophia smiled at you. When she called your name. Hold your hand. You knew your chest felt strange when she laughed.

The flower was down to its last petal when you heard a car door slam.

“She loves me,” You murmured, pulling it free.

You didn’t even look at the answer in your hand, just smiled like the world had given you a secret you weren’t supposed to know.

The sound of footsteps came next, light and quick against the pavement. You turned, and there she was, Sophia, her hair catching the sunlight in a way that made it look like strands of gold. She was holding her mom’s hand but let go the second she saw you.

“Hey,” she said, her voice bright, her smile brighter.

You didn’t know why, but you hid the flower behind my back. Maybe you didn’t want her to see how silly you were. Or maybe you wanted to keep that little game between you and the wind.

She stopped right in front of me, eyes shining like she’d been waiting for this moment all day. “Ready to go?”

You nodded, tossing the stem into the grass. “Yeah.”

You walked toward her mom’s car together, her shoulder brushing yours just enough to make your heart stumble. Even back then, at five years old,

You knew, you’d wait for her forever.

-Present-

The roar of the crowd snapped you back to now, twenty-one years later. The air inside Crypto.com Arena was electric, the bass from the pregame music thudding through your chest. You stood at center court in a purple-and-gold jersey, your number lit up on the jumbotron, the name everyone chanted carrying farther than you'd ever dreamed as a kid dribbling on cracked pavement.

Twenty-six years old. A WNBA starter. Your name being house-hold, the face of the league, the next Sue Bird.

But that fame didn't matter.

Because court side, front row, just behind the team bench. Sophia sat with Blake in her lap. Your daughter’s tiny hands clapped wildly at the lights and noise, her curls bouncing, her cheeks round and perfect. Sophia caught your eye and smiled, that same smile from all those years ago, like nothing in the world had changed.

The PA announcer’s voice boomed, introducing the matchup: “Your Los Angeles Sparks… versus the Connecticut Sun!”

Tonight you had something to prove, someone to play for and you sure as hell going to play your heart out.

The whistle blew, and the ball was yours.

You caught from the tip, your fingers instinctively drumming against the leather as you scanned the court. Connecticut’s defense closed in fast, but you drove right, the squeak of sneakers cutting sharp through the noise. A quick crossover, defender gone. Two steps, up off the glass. First bucket of the night.

The crowd surged. Somewhere in that sea of faces, Sophia was on her feet, Blake bouncing on her hip, with her tiny hands up, face full of excitement as if she understood that her mama scored.

Possession after possession, the game slowed for you like a familiar song. A catch-and-shoot three from the wing, nothing but net. A steal at half court, sprinting ahead before the Sun could react, finishing with a clean layup. Every time the ball left your hands, it felt right.

By the end of the first quarter, you glanced at the scoreboard: 18-6 with 14 points coming from you.

You weren't even breathing hard. With sheer focus and determination being your fuel.

Your eyes caught Sophia’s gaze again as you huddled before the second quarter, her lips forming the words, You’re on fire.

She didn’t have to tell me.

You could feel it. just like you feel a smirk form in your face. The same way you could feel Blake’s tiny hand waving in the air, not knowing the rules, but knowing her mama was doing something worth cheering for.

When the buzzer sounded for the next quater, You bent down, palms on your knees, and grinned.

The flower had been right all along.

The ball felt like an extension of your hands now. Every pass hit clean, every step in rhythm. Connecticut tried switching to a zone, didn’t matter.

You cut through it like wind through tall grass. A pull-up jumper from the elbow, a baseline drive ending in a reverse layup, another three that kissed the rim and dropped in.

By halftime, you’d already hit 27. Your teammates slapped your back as you jogged to the locker room, but you barely heard the praise. Your eyes found Sophia. She was laughing, shaking her head like she couldn’t believe it. Blake was trying to mimic the clapping from the fans around her, her tiny palms smacking together off-beat.

The moment you stepped through the locker room door, it was chaos. Towels flying, sneakers squeaking on tile, and your teammates hollering like you’d just dropped the game-winner instead of just the first half.

“Twenty-seven points already?!” Kelsey shouted, shoving you lightly on the shoulder. “Girl, you trying to break records before the third quarter?”

You laughed, dropping into your seat and grabbing a water bottle. “Had to put on a show for my family,” You said between sips.

That set them off. “Ohhh, I see how it is,” one of the rookies teased. “Sophia and little Blake show up and suddenly you’re Steph Curry.”

“Forget Steph,” another chimed in, “she’s playing like she wants Blake to think she’s cooler than Bluey.”

The room erupted with laughter. you just smirked, shaking your head. “Well, I mean… I am cooler than Bluey.”

Rickea raised an eyebrow. “Debatable.”

“Keep talking,” You said, grinning as you laced my shoes tighter, “and I’ll drop forty just to prove it.”

The coaches brought you back to focus, writing up the next plays for the second half. You stayed centered and grounded, determined to reach your goal of 51 points.

The third quarter was no different, the game still your hand, your rhythm.

The Sun came out desperate, but desperation doesn’t always make it dangerous, it just makes it predictable. You read their defense like a children’s book, cutting before they saw you coming. A corner three. A mid-range fadeaway. A drive-and-one that made the arena erupt.

The announcer’s voice boomed: “That’s forty points for her tonight!” You just smirked, pulling your iconic celebration, jogging back on defense.

The score was in our favor, but you weren't done. The crowd was buzzing now, not just for the win, but for something bigger. Every time you touched the ball, the noise swelled like a wave. Your teammates knew it too, they fed you possession after possession.

Forty-five points. Forty-eight points.

Then, with six seconds left, the ball swung to you beyond the arc. The Sun’s defense rushed out, but it was too late. You stepped back, the world slowing to a heartbeat.

Release. Spin. Perfect arc.

You turned, not to the scoreboard, not to my team, straight to Sophia and Blake. Pointed right at them.

The buzzer screamed as the ball dropped clean through the net. The arena exploded.

This wasn’t just my shot. It was ours.

Final Score: 96–68. Career high: 51 points.

Confetti still drifted from the rafters when Sophia reached you court side, Blake wriggling excitedly in her arms.

“Mama!” Blake squealed when you took her, her little hands patting your cheeks like she was making sure you were real.

You kissed her forehead. “Hey, Bug. Did you see Mama's big shot?”

Blake tilted her head. “Ball go boom.”

Sophia laughed, shaking her head. “That’s her way of saying you hit it.”

You looked at Sophia, still a little breathless. “I told the team I had to put on a show for my family. Guess I meant it.”

Her smile softened. “You didn’t just put on a show. You made history.” She brushed a stray hair from your forehead. “And you pointed right at us. You have any idea what that felt like?”

“Yeah,” you said, meeting her eyes. “It felt like everything I’ve ever played for.”

Blake grabbed the ends of your jersey and giggled. “Again, Mommy!”

Sophia smirked. “No pressure.”

You laughed, hugging them both close. “Don’t worry, Bug. Mama just getting started.”

The media area was buzzing when you rolled out for the post-game interview, still in your jersey, with Blake perched on your hip. She had both fists wrapped around your lanyard credential like it was her new favorite toy.

The second we sat down, she reached for the microphone in front of you “Mic!” she declared, grabbing it with both hands.

The reporters laughed. The moderator tried to gently pull it back, but Blake was determined, testing the mic by smacking it, then leaning in and yelling, “Mama” loud enough to make everyone flinch.

"Yes Mama" You gently rock her as you look towards the sea of reporters "Hi guys, I guess we have a co-star tonight,” You said, adjusting her in your lap. “Careful, she charges for appearances.”

The crowd of reporters laugh lightly, just looking at the small girl playing with the mic.

The first reporter smiled. “So… career-high 51 points. What was going through your mind out there?”

You grinned. “Honestly? It was for her,” you said, kissing the top of Blake’s head. “Her birthday’s May 1—five-one—so I figured, why not give her a special number to remember? I'm never going to score more points than 51, thats a stat that has her name written on it”

A few “awws” went around the room before another reporter jumped in. “And speaking of family, Sophia and Blake have been at several of your games now. How much do they factor into how you approach your career?”

You didn’t even hesitate. “Everything I do, I do with them in mind. Sophia’s been with me since before I had a single stat to my name, I can't imagine a Y/N L/N without a Sophia Laforteza, she is my soul, my air, my everything and Blake…” I looked down at her as she tried to bite the foam cover off the microphone, “…well, she’s my biggest cheerleader, just seeing her today cheering me on, makes me want to be a better basketball player and a better mom. I just know that my games will be a memory we can cherish, … even if she doesn’t quite know the rules yet.

That got another round of laughter.

“Does Blake come to practice, too?” someone asked.

“Oh, sometimes,” you said. “But let’s just say, if you ever see the Sparks running a full-court press with a toddler on the sideline yelling ‘go boom,’ you’ll know why.”

The room cracked up, and Blake, hearing the laughter, slapped the mic like she’d just told the joke herself.

You held her a little tighter, smiling for the cameras. “Yeah… this is the best win of my career. And it’s not even close.”

"How about sophia career and yours, do you every see it as a struggle?" A report chimes in.

You smiled, glancing down at Blake before meeting the camera again.

“Honestly, every career has its challenges, that’s just part of the journey. But having Sophia by my side makes all the struggles feel smaller. She’s been my rock through every hard practice, every long travel, every late night. And I hope I’m the same for her. What she does truly amazes me and I want to be their in the crowds for her supporting her"

You gave a soft laugh, watching Blake try to pull the microphone away again. “Plus, with a little one keeping us on our toes, we don’t have time to dwell on struggles, we just keep moving forward.”

The reporter smiled and asked, “Final question, Will we see you at the Katseye World Tour during the off-season?”

You grinned, brushing a hand through Blake’s curls.

“Absolutely. There’s no way I’d miss it. Sophia’s career is just as… no even more important than mine, and cheering her on is one of my favorite things to do. Plus, Blake’s already got her little fan club started, it’s going to be a full family affair. Off-season or not, we’re a team, on and off the court.”

The interview wrapped up, and you gently set Blake down on, holding her tiny hands as, she toddled a few steps forward, turning back to wave her tiny hand at the reporters like a little queen saying goodbye.

“Bai-bai!” she giggled, her voice full of joy and mischief.

Sophia was waiting just outside the media room, her smile warm and steady as always. you caught her eye and walked over, wrapping your arm around her waist.

Blake ran to us, and Sophia scooped her up effortlessly, planting a soft kiss on her forehead.

“Ready to go home, little superstar?” Sophia asked.

Blake nodded vigorously, clutching her mom’s shirt.