Converse were always your thing. Sure, Billie rocked them too, but she had her Nikes, her other sneakers, her whole range. But for you? Converse were basically part of your identity—like a signature. And that one pair, the pair, had been with you through everything. The smudged soles told stories of late-night walks, impromptu concerts, and lazy afternoons. When you were bored, your marker would come out, leaving random doodles and lyrics scrawled across the canvas like a diary only you could read.

But somehow, you left them at her place. You hadn’t even realized it until a couple of days later. Heading over to grab them, you found them lying right where you’d kicked them off last—half-hidden under Billie’s bed. You picked them up, turning them over in your hands, your fingers tracing over familiar lines of faded ink. That’s when you noticed it.

Right on the tip of the left shoe, in her unmistakable messy scrawl, were two words: “𝖤ꪱᜒᥣꪱᜒડ𝗁'ડ 𝗀ꪱᜒ𝗋ᥣ ”.

Your heart flipped, a mix of surprise and amusement blooming into a grin you couldn’t hold back. Before you could fully process it, you heard her voice from behind you.

“Hope you like it” she said, leaning casually against the doorframe.

You turned to face her, and there she was, all smirks and half-lidded confidence, the kind that made your stomach do somersaults.

“Really marking your territory, huh?” you teased, holding the shoe up for emphasis.

She shrugged, her lips curling into a smirk. “Just making sure everyone knows whose girl you are.”