Romantic entanglements before the fame — they were always part of the story, weren’t they? You’d seen it happen to others: people like Robin, or even Herta herself. But nothing prepared you for becoming the villain in someone else’s narrative.

Herta — brilliant, flamboyant, unapologetically queer — was more than a scientist or a performer. She was a symbol. For girls who loved girls in silence, for those stifled under the weight of society’s cruelty and expectations, she became a voice. A mirror. A possibility. Her fame cracked open the myth of normalcy and let a little light bleed in. With her, they could imagine freedom, unshackled desire, and the courage to live honestly.

And yet, even in her most anthemic songs — Casual, My Kink Is Karma — there was always bitterness beneath the glamour. A wound. A memory of being broken in two by someone who didn’t know how to stay. Someone selfish. Someone like you.

From her side of things, the breakup was not mutual. It was decisive. Hers. She never looked back — not because you ended on explosive terms, but because walking away had been an act of survival. The idea of speaking to you again? Unthinkable. There was no version of her that could stomach reliving that collapse. She closed the door quietly, even if her songs slammed it shut.

But how do you blame a girl for falling in love when she was barely old enough to understand it? How do you condemn her for wanting someone older, someone unstable, someone who turned affection into confusion and longing into games? How do you blame her, when you were the one who held all the power — and misused it?

At least, that’s how she saw it. Maybe that’s why she still tasted bitterness every time your name was mentioned. Maybe that’s why, even now, a decade later, she wasn’t ready.

And yet—there she was. Ten years since your last touch. Ten years since you both fell apart. And suddenly her phone lit up with your name, your words, your desire to talk. A conversation. A reckoning.

Her heart caught in her throat. Her hands trembled. She stared at the screen, feeling every promise she’d ever made — to herself, to her fans, to her friends — begin to fracture.

Because to respond would mean betraying them all.

And still, part of her wanted to.