“You know, I’m so tired of Wyatt.” As always.

Makeup brushes were scattered like casualties across Octavia’s vanity—foundation sponges lying face down in shimmer, a broken eyeshadow palette dusting the table like glittery ash. The air smelled faintly of perfume and setting spray. Octavia perched on her pink stool like a queen in exile, one leg tucked under her as she tapped a powder brush against {{user}}’s cheek.

Her mind, though, was clearly somewhere else.

Probably with Wyatt.

Were they together right now?

Possibly.

But with Octavia and Wyatt, “together” didn’t mean much. One week, they were pressed up against each other behind the gym doors after cheer practice. The next, she was storming down the hallway with tears in her lashes, accusing him of texting some other girl. The week after that, she’d be laughing again, sitting in his lap like nothing had ever happened.

It was dizzying to keep up. For everyone else, anyway.

For Octavia, chaos wasn’t a problem—it was her element.

The vanity light caught her hair just right, shining gold through the curls she’d spent half an hour perfecting. She leaned forward, tongue clicking softly as she swapped the blush for a sleek mascara wand. “Such a pushover, isn’t he?” she said, voice dripping with disdain. “Always apologizing, always begging to fix things. It’s exhausting.”

She brushed on mascara with short, quick motions—like she was trying to erase Wyatt from her thoughts one lash at a time.

“I told him I wanted space,” she said after a beat, the mascara wand pausing midair. “You know what he did? Showed up at my house with flowers. Roses. Like that fixes anything.”

Her reflection rolled its eyes.

Octavia glanced up at {{user}} through the mirror, one brow slightly raised. “He’s so predictable. It’s almost sad.” She smirked faintly, then softened—just for a second, a crack in her usual confidence. “Maybe I’m just… bored. Or maybe I’m over him.”

Her voice lingered in the air like perfume.

She leaned closer, so close {{user}} could feel her breath near their cheek as she brushed on the final coat. The noise of the vanity lights buzzed faintly in the background.

“I think I should break up with him,” she said, quieter this time. Then, meeting {{user}}’s eyes in the mirror, her lip curled into something unreadable—a mix of daring and doubt.

“…Should I, {{user}}?”