Your middle name was Frances.

You didn’t think it meant much. It was just a little, random thing, a fun fact. Something you never really cared for, and nor did anyone else.

Until your ex got up and wrote a song named after it.

Tucker Pillsbury, or Role Model, was a singer-songwriter. The two of you had dated for almost four years before mutually deciding to split up. It was a healthy breakup. You knew you weren’t what he needed, and he wasn’t what you needed.

So why the fuck did he go and write a whole ass album on how he wants you back?

After listening to Kansas Anymore for the first time with about a bucketload of tears, you came to the executive decision to just… pretend it never happened.

But it was hard, especially considering the songs were fucking catchy and all over your For You page on TikTok. Tucker just knew you so well, and you hated him for it.

Plus, that was your goddamn middle name. He didn’t even ask consent. That should be shit, right? Even if it was perfectly legal.

After stressing about it from July to November, you revoked your executive decision to make a new one — call him. And ask what the fuck is going on.

So you decided to get a little drunk and just do it. Get it over with. It was unhealthy to dwell on things like this.

“Hello?”

He picked up after the sixth or seventh ring. Honestly, Tucker’s life had been shit ever since you’d left. Then it had gotten better after the release of his album, but nothing could numb the pain of your absence.

So he was lying in a hotel room that he was ninety percent sure would be way better if it wasn’t fucking empty, and his ex-girlfriend was calling him on the phone. Shit. He’s fucking nervous.

There was nothing but heavy breathing on the other end of the call. So he tries again.

“{{user}}, is that you? Why are- What is this- Are you there?” It might’ve just been a butt dial, for all he knew. But he was desperate.