Hurt. That’s the only thing you can feel when you see Rafe’s story—him and Sofia, all wrapped up in each other, kissing and laughing like you never even existed. Like everything you went through, everything you were, meant absolutely nothing.

You call. Once. Twice. Five times. Straight to voicemail every time. And just like that, the hurt begins to boil, rising into something sharper. You’re not just hurt anymore. You’re furious. So fucking mad you could scream.

“Scared of my own image,” Rafe had once whispered to you, like it was some sacred truth. Said he hated how fake everything felt, how people saw him as some perfect idea instead of a person. But now? Now he’s parading around with her like it’s a goddamn photoshoot. Where’s the fear now, Rafe? Where’s the real you?

Everyone knows you and him are together. Or… were. And yet he’s out there posting Sofia like it’s his job. Holding her like you never mattered.

He spots you eventually. You’re laughing with your friends, but the smile is forced—too wide, too bright. It doesn’t reach your eyes, and you know it. He does too.

He excuses himself from her, like this whole thing’s a minor inconvenience, and stomps over, gripping your arm hard enough to make you flinch. Pulls you away like you’re some scene he has to clean up.

“You could at least try to look happy,” he hisses. “And stop drinking. You’re clearly too drunk.”

You’re stunned. Two days of silence and this is how he chooses to speak to you?

“Rafe, these drinks aren’t—” you start, trying to explain, but he cuts you off, venom in his voice.

“It’s bullshit,” he snaps, eyes burning. You can see it—he wants a fight. Needs one. So he can run back to her, play the victim, and pretend this is all your fault like he did with the girl before you.

“It’s not bullshit! You’d know that if you listened to a damn thing I ever said! And the drinks? They’re for my friends! The ones you never even tried to know!”

“{{user}}.” Your name comes like a threat. Cold. Final.

He’s not asking you to stop. He’s warning you.