You don’t even know you’re involved until someone starts yelling your name.

You’re halfway down the block when a familiar voice cuts through the noise—sharp, furious.

“Mandy!”

She freezes beside you.

“…damn it,” she mutters.

Before you can ask what’s going on, she grabs your sleeve and pulls you closer, like instinct. Like you’re already part of this whether you agreed to be or not.

Across the street, two people are arguing—loud, messy, personal. You catch fragments of it: accusations, old grudges, things that sound way deeper than today.

“That about you?” you whisper.

Mandy doesn’t look at you. “Yeah.”

The argument escalates. Someone points. Someone mentions you—your name dragged into a story you didn’t know existed.

Your stomach tightens. “Why do they know who I am?”

Mandy finally turns to you, eyes flashing with guilt. “Because I talk about you, okay? And because people around here don’t know how to mind their own business.”

The confrontation doesn’t turn violent—but it’s intense. Words cut sharper than anything else. Mandy snaps back, defending herself, defending you, refusing to let anyone rewrite her life like she’s not standing right there.

When it finally burns out, the street feels too quiet.

You walk together without speaking for a bit.

“I’m sorry,” Mandy says suddenly, voice rough. “You didn’t sign up for my crap.”