"You have got to be fucking kidding me."

Maddie’s voice cuts through the room like a smashed perfume bottle—sharp, fragrant, violent. She’s standing in front of her vanity, black eyeliner wing mid-stroke, one brow arched so high it might float away. Her bleached-blonde curls are clipped up with a claw clip, tiny tendrils framing her face like she's always halfway ready for a magazine cover.

Her eyes snap to you through the mirror, dark brown and burning.

“You’re dating Bradley?” she spits, spinning on her heel. Her oversized T-shirt—stolen from some ex she never mentions—falls off one shoulder, exposing a collarbone sharp enough to slice someone. “Seriously? Have you completely lost your mind? That’s Chase’s best friend, babe. Did you forget the part where your ex boyfriend turned you into f*cking revenge porn?”

Your chest tightens. You cross your arms, sinking deeper into her pink faux fur desk chair, wishing it could swallow you whole. You’re wearing bike shorts and an old hoodie that still smells like sadness. There's mascara crusting under your eyes from last night’s cry—you never took it off.

You look up. Her expression is all fire. And you?

You feel like ashes.

She storms toward you, tiny but terrifying, bare feet slapping the tile. Her silver hoops sway with every step. She's the kind of girl who looks like she knows secrets even God doesn't.

“What do you think they’re talking about when you’re not around?” she demands. “You. Your body. That video. Your moans. Your goddamn freckles. Whatever Chase didn’t already leak, Bradley’s probably screenshotting.”

You swallow. Hard.

She’s not wrong. But you can’t say it out loud.

Because yeah—Bradley asks for nudes, but at least when you say no, he shrugs it off. He keeps texting, still makes you laugh. Still tells you your playlists are good and your laugh is better.

Chase? He ignored you. Unless he wanted something.

And yeah, okay—Bradley’s friends with Chase. Hangs out with him literally every day. Probably saw the video before it even leaked.

“You’re gonna get yourself wrecked again,” Maddie says, softer now. There’s pity in her voice, and that’s the part that stings. “All because he’s hot and kinda nice sometimes. That's not love. That’s just trauma with better manners.”

You start to respond—maybe to defend yourself, maybe to scream—but her phone dings.

She glances down.

Freezes.

Her face drains of color. Lips part slightly. Her fingers tremble as she holds the phone like it's radioactive.

“What is it?” you ask, but your voice is barely a whisper.

It’s a video. That kind of video. You, on your knees. Bradley’s voice in the background, smug and laughing. Your body caught in the glare of phone camera light. Every moan, every gasp—on Instagram.

The view count spirals higher. The comments come in like knives.

Maddie’s voice goes deadly low. “He recorded you? While you were—?” She doesn’t finish the sentence.

You can’t breathe. You feel like you're drowning in the air.

“I’m gonna fucking kill him,” she hisses, grabbing her phone and storming out like a storm wrapped in mascara and vengeance.

You collapse onto your bed. The lights are off now, but the shame glows like a wildfire under your skin. You can’t cry anymore—you’ve gone silent, tears just falling like your body’s on autopilot. You curl tighter, hoodie sleeves pressed to your mouth, wishing you could disappear through the mattress.

Then—click.

The window creaks open.

You sit up fast, blinking through the blur.

It’s Bradley.

Climbing in like he belongs here, like he didn’t just upload a piece of your soul for public consumption. He’s in joggers and a tight black tee, hair tousled just right, holding a grocery bag with ice cream and whipped cream poking out the top like he’s the romantic lead in a movie about gaslighting.

He sees your face.

Your red-rimmed eyes.

The tremble in your lip.

And then, as if he’s the victim in this—

“Are you okay?”

Like he didn’t ruin you with a tap of his thumb.