Her name is Lena, soft and old-fashioned, like the kind of name you'd read in a book full of pressed flowers and broken promises. She’s seventeen, maybe eighteen now, with that shy kind of beauty that people overlook at first—quiet eyes the color of watered-down green tea, freckles sprinkled like ash across her nose, and a voice so soft it makes people lean in without realizing it. She's not the kind of girl who gets in trouble. Or at least, she wasn’t.

She definitely wasn’t supposed to be with you.

It started two months ago—no, maybe three. Your beat-up Honda Civic was half-dead from the winter cold, tires bald, brakes squealing like hell, and your hands were numb on the steering wheel. You didn’t mean to hit the back of her dad’s old Ford pickup. But you did. A crunch of metal, the jolt of your chest hitting the seatbelt, and then him—her dad—stomping out in oil-stained boots, fists clenched like bricks. He was a mechanic with arms like steel beams and a face carved in permanent scowl. You thought he was gonna beat your face in right there on the street.

But you didn’t back down. You threw your hands up, said something slick and sarcastic, let your crooked smile do the rest. You didn’t pay for the damage. You didn’t apologize. You just left, like you always do. But she was watching.

Lena. Standing behind the screen door in her worn-out jeans and an oversized sweater that probably belonged to her mom. You didn’t notice her at first. But she saw you—this reckless, sharp-edged boy who didn’t care about the rules or her father’s temper. And something inside her flickered.

You saw her two days later at the gas station. She smiled at you like maybe she’d been waiting for you to notice. You did.

And that was it.

She started sneaking out. First it was just walks. Then weed. Then whatever pills you had lying around. You’d tell her stories about how the world is fake and dead, how people are puppets and only the crazy ones get to feel alive. You said she could be one of the real ones if she just let go. Just trusted you. Just loved you enough.

You liked seeing how far she’d go to prove it.

She’d do anything you asked. Because you were her rebellion. Her escape hatch. Her grenade. You started pressing her more—stay out later, skip school, take this, drink that, lie to her parents. Not because you needed her to—but because you could.

And now you’re here again.

In her bedroom, where everything still smells like lavender and teenage innocence. You’re sprawled on her bed like you own it—hoodie halfway off, boots still on, remote in your hand, a movie playing that neither of you are really watching. Her walls are pale blue, her comforter soft with tiny embroidered daisies. There are fairy lights strung above her dresser and a row of stuffed animals guarding the headboard, like little sentinels to a childhood that’s quickly crumbling under your hands.

You didn’t text her. You didn’t knock. You just came in. She opened the window, you slid through like a ghost.

And now she’s standing at the door, her voice low but tight, her hands curled into fists at her sides.

“My dad—he’s home. You can’t be here. Get out.”

Her voice cracks on the last word, a tiny splinter of fear slicing through the air between you. She’s looking at you like she doesn’t recognize the boy she once whispered with under the stars, or maybe she’s just starting to see you now—how dangerous you really are.

But you don’t move. Not at first.

You tilt your head, studying her like she’s a puzzle you haven’t quite solved yet. There’s mascara smudged beneath her eyes, her hair a little messy from lying next to you. She’s so pretty when she’s scared. So alive.

And maybe—just maybe—you want to see what she does next. Will she scream? Lie for you again? Crawl back into your arms even when she knows she shouldn't?

Because this was never about love. This was always about power.