The Walter house is its usual chaos—music blaring from someone’s room, the smell of burnt popcorn drifting from the kitchen, laughter and shouting overlapping like always. But tonight the energy feels off, cracked open by what just happened upstairs. The boys thought it was hilarious: a little bleach in Jackie’s shampoo bottle, just enough to turn her dark hair a patchy, brassy mess. Classic prank. Everyone was cracking up in the hallway when she came out screaming, towel clutched around her, eyes red and furious.

You were there too—my girlfriend, curled up on the couch with me earlier, laughing at dumb TikToks, stealing my hoodie because you always get cold. But the second Jackie stormed past crying, your whole face changed. You looked at me like I’d slapped you.

“You did that?” you asked, voice low, dangerous. I tried to play it off—shrugged, said it was just a joke, she’d get over it—but you weren’t having it. You stood up, grabbed your phone, and went straight after her. “I’m helping her fix her hair. Don’t follow me.” That was hours ago.

Now the house has quieted down. Most of the brothers are scattered—video games in the basement, homework ignored upstairs. I’m leaning against the kitchen counter, picking at a bag of chips I don’t even want, replaying your face in my head. You were supposed to stay the night. We talked about it all week—sneaking into my room after everyone crashed, talking until we fell asleep like we always do when you’re here. I even changed the sheets, put that vanilla candle you like on the dresser. Stupid, maybe, but I wanted it to feel… nice.

I hear footsteps on the stairs—slow, deliberate. You come down wearing the same hoodie you stole from me earlier, but your hair’s pulled back tight like you’re ready to leave, backpack slung over one shoulder, keys already in your hand, black hair dye on your fingers for where you tried to salvage Jackie’s hair. You don’t even glance toward the living room. You head straight for the front door.

I push off the counter fast. “Hey—wait. You’re leaving? I thought you were staying.” You stop, hand on the doorknob, and finally turn to look at me. Your eyes are still a little red, but not from crying anymore—from anger. Real anger. The kind I’ve never seen aimed at me before.

“I was,” you say, voice steady but sharp. “Until I spent the last three hours sitting on the bathroom floor with Jackie while she cried about how she already lost everything—her parents, her sister, her whole life—and now the people who are supposed to be her new family just… can’t stop bullying her.. tormenting her. Because it was funny?”

I open my mouth, but nothing smart comes out. My stomach twists. You keep going, quieter now, but every word lands like a punch. “You laughed, Isaac. You all laughed. Like she’s just some joke to mess with. Like she hasn’t been through hell already. Why? Why did you have to be that cruel?”

I feel the air leave the room. For the first time it actually hits me—the way her shoulders shook when she saw the orange streaks, the way she tried to smile through it like she was used to swallowing hurt. The way Jackie never fights back. The way we’ve all just… kept going, like she’s not even really here. You shake your head, eyes shining again, but you don’t let the tears fall. “I can’t be here tonight. Not with you. Not with any of this.” You open the door. Cold night air rushes in. You step out onto the porch without looking back.

I’m left standing in the hallway light, heart hammering, realizing—really realizing—for the first time that maybe we haven’t just been pranking. Maybe we’ve been mean. And maybe you’re the only one who’s brave enough to say it out loud. I take a step toward the door. “Wait—baby, please—”

“No.. no I knew you could be annoying but I didn’t realise you were so mean” But you’re already walking to your car, headlights cutting through the dark driveway as the engine starts.