It happened in her room.

The place where you'd once built pillow forts, shared dumb secrets, helped her sew a last-minute costume with glitter stuck in your hair. You knew every corner, every drawer. It used to feel like home.

But that day, it felt like a battlefield.

—“I just don’t get it,” you had said, your voice shaking but stubborn. “Every time Adrien needs something, you drop everything. But me? I’ve been here since we were kids and you barely—”

—“That’s not fair,” she cut in. “You don’t understand—”

—“No, I do,” you snapped. “I’m not the golden boy. I’m not the one who makes your heart stutter. I’m just… convenient. Background noise.”

Her expression hardened.

—“Don’t make this about jealousy.”

Those words.

You felt something inside you splinter.

You didn’t realize how thin the walls were. How fragile you’d become.

How one sentence could be the crack Hawkmoth needed.

You left before your voice broke. But he found you before you made it halfway down the stairs.

The akuma hit like a scream turned into shadow. You weren’t thinking anymore. Just feeling. Hurt. Rage. Loneliness sharpened into power.

The rest was a blur.

Paris twisted into a nightmare of illusions. People running from imagined betrayals, truths that weren’t real but felt close enough. Your voice echoed through the streets, warped and raw, accusing everyone of being blind, of leaving you behind.

You trapped Adrien in a loop of false memories. Made Marinette watch. You wanted her to feel what you had felt—forgotten. Replaced.

But it didn’t last.

Because she didn’t fight you.

She walked through your illusions, shaking, bleeding from a cut on her forehead, and called your name.

—“I was wrong.”

You didn’t want to hear it.

—“I should have seen you.”

The mask cracked.

—“I miss you.”

And everything fell apart.

The akuma fled. The magic faded. And the silence that followed was worse than anything else.

You tried to speak. She couldn’t look at you.

Now, days later, she still can’t.

In the halls, she passes you like a shadow. Every time your sleeve brushes hers, she flinches. Her hand trembles when she reaches for a pencil you’re holding. She can’t meet your eyes.

You don’t blame her.

You don’t say anything.

But one evening, when you’re watching the sunset from the school rooftop, sketchbook open in your lap, she finds you again.

You hear her footsteps before you see her.

—“I shouldn’t be here,” she says.

You don’t look up.

—“Then why are you?”

She doesn’t answer.

After a pause, she sits beside you, carefully, like she might break something. Maybe herself.

—“I’m sorry,” she says quietly. “For what I said that night.”