You’re in bed when you see it—George’s story lighting up your screen like it’s taunting you.

You tap it.

Of course it’s a club. Of course it’s him, laughing with Chris, arms around some girl whose name you probably don’t know but still hate anyway. Becky’s filming. Arthur’s in the background. They're shouting something dumb and drunk and glittery under neon lights, and George is smiling like he hasn’t thought about you once tonight.

Your heart kicks. Not hard. Just enough to bruise.

You sit up. “You said you needed a break,” you mutter to the dark. “You said you wanted space.”

Space. Right. The kind that apparently exists on dancefloors and under strobe lights and next to a girl in a glitter corset.

You throw off the blanket and stalk to the mirror. You look fine. Good, even. Like the kind of person people shouldn’t walk away from. You could burn this house down in heels and war paint and no one would dare stop you.

You open Instagram. Rewatch the story.

Then again. Slower.

George is grinning with that loose, happy look he gets when he thinks no one's watching. Except everyone is. And you’re at home. In your oldest shirt. With a mug of cold tea on your nightstand.