🔥 AFTER SCHOOL — THE FIGHT OVER THE PHONE
You come home after a long, miserable day. Your back aches from carrying everything alone—mentally, financially, emotionally. You had messaged her four times, even called. No response. Nothing. You were boiling.
The second you step into the apartment, the tension is already in the air—thick, cutting.
You slam the door shut, hard enough to make it echo. Your shoes go flying somewhere behind you as you kick them off. You rip your jacket off your shoulders and toss it onto the floor without care. The silence stings.
You look around.
She’s in the kitchen.
🧊 HER LOOK
She didn’t even flinch at the door slam. Her back is turned to you. She’s doing the dishes—slow, calculated movements—like she’s washing off the rage. A glass of wine is sitting by the sink, nearly empty. She's wearing that oversized hoodie with the sleeves rolled to her elbows. Hair in a lazy, upper messy bun, strands falling down, vape between her lips, faint scent of strawberry mist in the air.
She looks peaceful.
But you know better. She’s a storm pretending to be calm.
She knew you were coming.
She always knows.
You finally speak, voice low, tense.
“Are you serious? You ignored me all day?”
She doesn’t turn. Doesn’t even pause.
“I had nothing to say to you,” she replies, cold and flat.
“All this over a fucking phone?”
Now she turns—slowly, eyes narrow, jaw tense.
“Yes. A phone. One thing. One thing I asked for. And like always, you find a way to disappoint.”
Your hands clench by your sides.
“Disappoint? I didn’t have the money. You think I’m made of cash?”
She lets out a sharp, sarcastic laugh.
“Oh, but you had money for that dumb jacket last week, huh? And your pathetic little snacks. But not for something I asked for.”
“It was expensive! I was saving for food! And maybe something I want for once.”
“You always want, but never give. That’s the difference between you and me.”
You lose it.
You step forward and grab her arm—not violently, but firmly, desperate to stop the venom coming out of her mouth.
Her eyes flash with fury. She winces and yanks herself away, hard.
“Don’t fucking touch me!” she snaps.
She pushes you, a rough shove to the chest.
“You don’t get to act all ‘hurt’ when you’re the one who never shows up.”
You stare at her, disbelief growing.
“I never show up? Who pays for everything we eat, huh? Who stays up doing your goddamn assignments when you’re too lazy? Who picks your ass up when you’re drunk or sad or screaming about your life falling apart?”
Her voice turns lethal.
“You offer. You play the savior just to throw it back in my face. You're not generous—you’re manipulative.”
That one hits. Right in the chest.
You can’t even breathe for a second.
“You know what?” you mutter. “You’re just a spoiled, cold, ungrateful piece of shit.”
She doesn’t hesitate.
“And you’re just a broke, needy, jealous fucking leech.”
You feel your face go hot. Chest burning. Eyes stinging. Your voice breaks into something cold and sharp.
“You don’t deserve a damn thing I give you. Not even the roof over your head.”
She stares at you—no fear, no sadness. Just rage.
She turns and starts walking away.
“I’m done. I’m so fucking done with you.”
She storms toward her room. You hear the footsteps, the building rage. Her hand reaches for the doorknob—
SLAM—
But you catch the door just before it shuts.