Every stupid little piece of me. She was there through my first heartbreak, my period cramps, my panic attacks before school presentations, the time I thought I had a brain tumor just because I had a headache for three days. She brought me cupcakes when my crush rejected me. She held my hair when I cried. We made stupid TikToks in pajamas and swore we’d live together forever in an apartment with a pink toaster and matching mugs.” My throat clenched. My whole body trembled. “She’s Tasha, for God’s sake. She knows the name I used to give my teddy bear. She knows my mom’s ringtone. She’s seen me ugly cry over celebrities and dance like a cracked-out giraffe in my room. I told her everything. Every stupid fear. Every fantasy. Every dream.” I leaned back, head thudding against the wall behind me, eyes staring at the sky even though everything was blurry and burning. “And yeah, she messed up. She fucked up. She broke me in a way I didn’t think she ever could. But the worst part?
~Lyra~ The second the cold air hit my face, I lost it. I didn’t even make it down the steps. I just collapsed onto the front porch like my legs gave out, like my body finally got the memo that my soul had already left the chat. My knees hit the concrete, and I curled in on myself, hugging my arms so tight around my chest you’d think I was trying to hold my heart in place. And then I started crying. Not cute crying. Not sniffles or delicate tears or the kind of weeping you do in slow-motion under the rain with dramatic piano music. No. This was the ugly kind. The loud, snotty, gasping kind. My nose was running. My face was soaked. My eyeliner had given up and was now somewhere halfway down my chin. My chest felt like it was caving in, and my breath kept catching like my lungs were glitching. And the worst part? I couldn’t stop talking. “Fuck,” I whispered first, the word dragging out of my mouth like it weighed five tons. “Fuck. Fuck. Oh my God. What the hell was that.
“Oh, you didn’t know that part?” I snarled. “You thought he chose you? Baby, no. You were just available.” I said it slowly, like each word needed to be savored, like each syllable deserved its own spotlight for the kind of psychological massacre I was about to deliver. My voice wasn’t loud — not yet — but it was sharp enough to slice through the bass, the whispers, the air itself. Every single person in that room turned to look at me like I’d just snapped my fingers and summoned fire. Tasha looked up at me, lips trembling, mascara smudged, like her soul was starting to realize the seatbelt had come undone and the ride was about to crash. I tilted my head, blinking like I was trying to make sense of the disgusting image playing behind my eyelids. “He told people you were easy,” I said, enunciating each word with the precision of a girl who had been quiet for too damn long but of course I was lying. I just wanted to make her feel terrible “He also said that he didn’t ev
~~Lyra ~~ “It was just once.” That’s what she said. Those exact words. And I swear — for a second — I didn’t even feel my body anymore. I was outside myself, hovering somewhere above the chaos like a rejected angel watching my life burn in real time. I blinked. My ears rang. My soul detached. I was standing there in heels and heartbreak, in the middle of a party I didn’t even want, and my best friend just looked me in the eye and said it was just once. Once. Like that somehow made it better. Like that made the dick smaller. The betrayal softer. The memory less soul-crushing. I stared at her. I stared so long and so hard my vision blurred. “You fucked him.” My voice cracked. Not because I was confused. But because I was confirming it out loud for the first time. My brain needed my mouth to say it so it could finally accept that this nightmare was real. “You… fucked him.” Tasha flinched, eyes wide, face pale like she’d only just realized how far gone we were.
~Lyra~I don’t know what kind of ancient demon possessed Marcus that night, but the way he leaned in to me like we were about to have some cute, nostalgic movie moment where old flames reignite under disco lights and fake forgiveness — I swear my body rejected it. He was right in front of me, inches away, his breath hitting my face like temptation and trauma mixed into one. His stupid smirk was back, eyes half-lidded like he thought this was foreplay. Like I still wanted him. Like two years of pain and humiliation were just foreplay for the big reunion kiss. I stood there frozen, heart thumping like it was trying to fight its way out of my chest and run out the front door, but then his hand reached up — and I snapped. No, I detonated. I slapped him. So hard. Like ancestors rose in my palm and said, “Let her cook.” The entire party froze. Music still played in the background like the world hadn’t just ended, but the people? They stopped. Mid-dance, mid-laugh, mid-sip. L
~~Lyra~~ The moment Marcus walked in through that front door like he owned oxygen, I swear the entire house shifted. I mean it. The music dipped, the lights felt hotter, even the freaking air got weird and heavy like the universe itself was preparing for my breakdown. And me? I stood there like a stunned little loser in heels too high for my soul, gripping my red cup like it contained holy water instead of watered-down vodka punch, and staring at him like I’d just seen a demon crawl out of my past wearing expensive cologne and a smug little smirk. Oh my God. It was him. Marcus-fucking-Adesina. My ex. The boy who ruined my life. The one who made me question every single thing about myself — from my thighs to my values to whether or not I was lovable. The same boy who slut-shamed me for not having sex with him, then had the audacity to flirt with my lab partner the next week like I was just a warm-up exercise. The same boy who said I was “pretty but boring” because