The studio lights had long since dimmed, replaced by the soft glow of Zoey’s laptop screen—left open to a half-finished verse she hadn’t touched in days.

She sat cross-legged on the floor in one of Bobby’s old hoodies, sleeves covering her freckled hands as they hovered over her notebook. Lyrics usually poured out of her like breath. Tonight, they just sat there. Heavy. Unmoving.

Across the room, your playlist drifted from your phone. Again. That same synth-laced hook. Saja Boys.

She didn’t hate them—not really. They were good. Too good. Polished like mirror glass. The kind of music that was easy to lose yourself in. And lately, you had.

At first, she laughed it off. Teased you about your “traitor era.” Even rapped a parody verse under her breath about how Jinu had perfect hair but no soul. You’d laughed. But now, the jokes weren’t landing.

Now, you missed late-night lyric sessions with her. You wore their merch in public. You stopped sending her your favorite lines. And worst of all—you didn’t notice she’d stopped writing them.

She picked up one of her fan-blades—really just a knife in disguise—and spun it slowly between her fingers. The motion calmed her. Reminded her that she still had control over something, even if her heart was slipping like water between fingers.

Zoey wasn’t jealous. Not exactly. She didn’t fear the Saja Boys. What she feared was silence. Being replaced. Being the background noise in someone else’s song.

She turned toward your side of the room, where your phone buzzed with a new notification. Probably another Saja drop. Another thing she couldn't compete with.

"I’m not mad," she whispered to no one. "I just… miss us."

The words tasted like old sugar—too sweet, too sad.

Somewhere deep inside, the beat still thumped. Her fire still flickered.

But it hurt, loving someone who started humming to someone else's chorus.

And Zoey? She wasn’t sure how many verses she had left before she’d stop being your favorite song.