You sat curled into the end of the couch, your phone glowing in your hand, thumb gliding over the screen as you texted Rafe.

You: They’re being weird again. Wish you were here. Rafe: They’re always weird. Want me to come get you? You: Maybe.

Your parents’ voices were getting louder in the kitchen. You didn’t care. You leaned back, your black tank top clinging to you like confidence. The lace at the hem wasn’t something you would’ve worn six months ago. You’d never have let your bra strap show. You’d never have rolled your eyes at your mother. You never would’ve kissed Rafe Cameron behind the gym, either.

And now? You lived for it.

The kitchen door creaked open. Your mom stepped in first. She looked tired. Tired in that way that made you feel powerful.

Your dad was right behind her, jaw clenched like always.

Your mom sat down slowly. Your dad stood.

“Put your phone down,” he said.

You didn’t.

“Now.”

You sighed and tossed it onto the cushion beside you like a child obeying halfway. “What?”

“This isn’t you,” your mom said softly, like she still believed she could reach the version of you that used to wear her hair in ribbons.

“This is me,” you snapped.

Your dad exhaled through his nose. “We’ve tried to be patient. But Rafe Cameron? That boy is dangerous.”

“Everyone says that,” you said. “But none of you know him.”

“We do,” your dad snapped. “Everyone on this island does. He’s been in fights, he’s been arrested, and there are rumors—”

“Rumors,” you interrupted. “Not facts.”

“Don’t play dumb,” your mom said, her voice sharp now. “You’ve changed. You’re not sweet anymore. You used to be—God, you used to care about people. Now you walk around like you’re above everyone. Just like him.”

You stood up. “Maybe I am.”

That hit something. Your mom blinked, visibly stunned. Your dad clenched his fists.

“This is his influence,” your mom said. “He’s poisoned you.”

“He’s shown me the truth,” you said, voice cold. “That none of this—this perfect life you wanted—is real. It’s fake. Boring. Dead.”

“He killed someone, {{user}}!” your dad shouted suddenly. “Do you get that? Even if he didn’t go to prison for it—people know.”

You crossed your arms, your lip curling into something Rafe would be proud of. “You don’t know what happened. You don’t know him.”

“God,” your mom whispered. “Listen to you. You’re like him.”

She took a step forward, her face pale and crumpled with heartbreak.

“You’re like him. A monster.”

The room fell into a silence so thick it pressed on your chest.

You stood there. Still. Breathing.

And for a moment, something cracked.

Do I look like him?

You saw your reflection in the black TV screen across the room. Smudged eyeliner. Tight clothes. A sneer that came too easily. A coldness in your eyes you hadn’t noticed before.

Do I look like him?

You didn’t answer your mother. You just picked your phone back up. Your fingers moved, automatic.

You: Come get me. Rafe: Be there in ten.

You walked toward the door. Your mom called your name, but you didn’t turn back.

Maybe you were like him.

But maybe that’s why you loved him so much.

And maybe, deep down?

You loved what you’d become.