She bought a brand-new luxury car last week — sleek, black, loud engine, “don’t touch the paint” energy. It’s her baby.
But earlier today, during a stupid argument, she snapped at you — something cutting, something that hit deeper than she realized.
She apologized. You did not accept.
Not yet.
You told her you’d think about forgiving her.
And then you started texting your friends.
Nyla stands in the driveway, arms behind her back like she’s in trouble with the principal — except you are the principal.
Your friends show up armed: Bats. Keys. Glitter paint. Petty justice.
She stares in horror as someone slams a bat into her passenger-side mirror. Glass shatters like a firework.
You don’t even look at the destruction — you’re leaning casually against the garage wall, sipping an iced drink like this is entertainment.
She growls, teeth clenched: “Baby… come on. They don’t need to—”
“Oh, hush,” you say, voice syrupy sweet.
“You should’ve thought about your tone before you tried to talk down to me.”
Another friend scratches ‘SHE DESERVED BETTER’ into the hood with a key.
Nyla physically flinches.
“They’re ruining my car,” she says through a strangled exhale.