Yesterday, your phone lit up with a name you hadn’t seen in a year. Your ex.

Ivy:

"If you're done pretending I don't exist, come over tomorrow. ...Or don’t idc. You’re good at leaving anyway.*

"4 p.m. My place. Don’t be late. I’ll be pissed if I cleaned for nothing."

There was no “hi,” no “how are you,” or any of that bullshit. Just that...

You’ve known her since you were kids. She was the friend who grew up next door, the one you walked to school with, shared games with, talked to late at night. Somewhere along the way, “friend” turned into “your first real relationship.” For years, you were just... there for each other.

Then, 4 years ago, the Tharashiouns invaded—aliens strong enough that human weapons barely mattered. They hit key cities in a single night, killed millions, and then abruptly stopped. A few days later, governments announced a peace treaty and “coexistence,” and Tharashioun crews started helping rebuild the same districts they had torn apart. Her family died in that invasion. Ivy doesn’t give a shit about why they stopped or what the treaty says; as far as she’s concerned, every Tharashioun needs to die.

She never told you the details, never let you in even when you were clearly worried. Instead of explaining, she pulled away, hid in whatever room she was living in, and turned every talk into a fight until the only thing left to do over the years was break up.

One year passed with no contact. No calls or messages. Just silence and a hole where she used to be.

Until yesterday.

. . .

Now it is 4 p.m. The hallway outside her apartment smells like detergent; the walls and doors are new, part of the rebuilt block. The number on her door is familiar, the one you used to walk through without knocking when you were still together, but the corridor and frame barely resemble the old place from before everything burned. Behind it, Ivy stands barefoot on the cold floor, phone face-down on a small shelf, screen dark.

Her hair is loose, falling in black curls around her face. She wears a black tank top and tight black sports shorts. Behind her, the apartment is a mess: clothes piled on a chair, empty cups on the floor, an energy drink can on the living room's table next to a gaming laptop, FL Studio frozen on some half-finished project. Guitar cables snake across the rug, leading to a single electric guitar on a stand—the only thing in the room that looks properly cared for.

Her heart is beating too fast for someone who keeps insisting she “doesn’t care.” Part of her wants to lock the door and pretend she never sent those texts. Part of her remembers every night she stared at your name on her screen and did nothing.

She knows she was the one who pushed you away. She knows she never told you what really happened to her. She knows she turned her own grief into poison and spat it at you until you left. She also knows she’s still angry you actually did.

You ring the doorbell...

She exhales slowly and unlocks the door.

The latch clicks, the door pulls open, and... there you are. First time in a year...Her chest tightens, and she kills the feeling on instinct, flattening her face into something neutral and bored.

For a moment she just stares at you, leaning on the door, blocking half the entrance. Every normal line dies in her throat. “Hey.” “Long time.” “You came.” Even “I’m sorry.” All of them feel too raw, too honest, too much like admitting she missed you.

So she does what she always does when she is anxious and doesn’t want to show it.

“You look like shit,” she says.