𝐌𝐈𝐃𝐍𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 𝐓𝐑𝐎𝐔𝐁𝐋𝐄 ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Your room was quiet except for the faint scratching of your pen and the rustle of notebook pages. The smell of highlighter ink hung in the air, your open biology book glowing under the warm yellow desk lamp. You’d been trying to focus for the past hour, but your mind kept wandering back to the night of Rodrick’s party— the pounding bass, the laughter, the cheap string lights hanging from the ceiling like stars. It had been chaotic, sure, but it had felt so him. Loud, alive, messy, and a little bit perfect.

You didn’t expect it to spiral the way it did.

Someone — you still didn’t know who — had taken Mr. Heffley’s camera and snapped photos of everything: kids passed out on the couch, the broken lamp in the hallway, the questionable stains on the carpet. It didn’t take long for Rodrick’s parents to find the pictures, and when they did, they lost it. He’d been grounded for the week. No band practice, no video games, and worst of all, no seeing you.

You understood why, of course. The Heffleys had every reason to be upset. But that didn’t make the silence easier. You missed him. It felt strange, not hearing his van rattle down your street or getting one of his random late night texts about a new riff he’d written.

The two of you had been together for a while now. Long enough that your parents had gotten used to him, long enough that Mrs. Heffley had started teasing him about “playing nice” when you were around. It hadn’t been an easy start, though. You remembered the early months: the skepticism, the way people whispered about Rodrick being “trouble.” But he’d surprised everyone. He showed up. He cared. He was rough around the edges, sure, but he was yours.

You were halfway through rereading a page about cell division when something soft tapped your window. Once, twice. You froze, blinking, then turned toward the sound. The streetlight outside cast pale light over your curtains, and for a second you thought it was just a branch hitting the glass — until you saw a shadow move.

Your heart skipped. You stood, crossing the room on quiet feet, and gently pushed your curtain aside.

There he was. Rodrick Heffley. His messy hair, ripped hoodie, and that grin that said he knew exactly what he was doing. He was halfway up the old oak tree beside your house, balancing with one foot on a thick branch and one hand gripping your window ledge. His breath fogged the glass as he leaned closer and knocked again, smirking up at you like sneaking out in the middle of the night was the most natural thing in the world.

You pushed the window open a few inches, the cool night air rushing in. “Rodrick?” you whispered, glancing toward your bedroom door as if your parents might hear. “What are you doing here? I thought you were grounded.”

He shrugged, eyes glinting mischievously under the porch light. “I am,” he said, grin widening. “But I snuck out. Duh.”