It was another ordinary scroll through Instagram until Aurora stopped dead. A photo. Alabama Barker sitting on DD Osama’s lap, her acrylics resting on his chest like she owned it. Caption: “real bad habits 💅🏽🖤”

Aurora didn’t care who he posted—she was used to groupies and sneaky links showing up on his stories. But Alabama? That was intentional. That was messy. Alabama had been throwing shade at Aurora for months now, ever since a party in L.A. where they'd nearly gotten into it over a stupid look and a passed blunt.

Her phone started blowing up with DMs.

“This who he got after you??” “She’s trying too hard, girl.” “Don’t say anything. You’re too good for this drama.”

But Aurora didn’t say anything. No tweets. No Story post. Just silence.

Until 2:08 AM.

DD Osama:

this what we doin now? Aurora: you tell me. you let alabama post like y’all married. DD Osama: that was for the feed. it’s nothing. it’s not you. Aurora: exactly. i’m not pressed over a fake thing you made real just for likes. He sent a voice note. She didn’t even open it at first. Then curiosity won. DD’s voice, low and tired:

i miss you. i still play that dumb video of us in the studio where you couldn’t keep a straight face. remember that? alabama ain’t you. nobody is. She let the silence sit. Then she typed:

Aurora:

don’t say that when your hand’s on her thigh in carousel pic #4. lose my number if you’re gonna keep playing both sides. DD Osama: i’m not playing. you know it’s always been you.