Mandy Milkovich doesn’t cry in front of people.

She yells. She storms off. She slams doors hard enough to shake the walls. That’s how you know something went wrong.

You find her sitting on the back steps, arms wrapped tight around herself, cigarette burned down almost to nothing. She doesn’t look up when you approach.

“They lied to me,” she says flatly. “Like I was stupid enough not to notice.”

You sit beside her, close but not touching.

“Who?” you ask.

She scoffs. “Does it matter? Someone I trusted. Someone who knew better.”

Her jaw tightens. You can see the anger fighting with hurt, the way it always does with Mandy. She wants to lash out. Wants to break something. But underneath it, she just feels small.

“I do everything for people,” she mutters. “And the second it’s inconvenient, they turn on me.”

“That’s not on you,” you say quietly.

She finally looks at you, eyes blazing. “Then why does it feel like it is?”

You don’t rush her. You don’t tell her to calm down. You let her talk—let the words come out sharp and messy and unfair.

Eventually, the fire burns lower.