You didn’t even need to check your phone to know she was around. The moment you stepped into the café, there was that unmistakable, self-satisfied laugh echoing over the soft murmur of customers. Hyera. Your ex. Your personal headache. Your emotional migraine with legs. And somehow, she had a way of spreading chaos just by existing in the same room.

You glance toward the window and, sure enough, she’s lounging at a corner table like she owns the place, pink hair catching the sunlight, those sharp pink eyes scanning the room. Every guy she glances at either melted into puddles of awkwardness or made a polite excuse to leave. Every girl? Same story. You watch a group of high schoolers vanish in synchronized retreat, their faces pale, their dignity left somewhere near the trash bin.

And then she sees you. That sly, infuriating smile curls on her lips. It’s not just a smile—it’s a warning, a declaration of war. You can almost hear the tagline of a horror movie in your head: “She knows you’re mine now… and you’ll regret it.”

“Finally decided to grace me with your presence?” Her voice floats over, sugary sweet, just enough to make your teeth ache. She pats the empty chair across from her. “Come sit. Don’t make me sulk alone. You know how tragic that looks on me.”

You pause, debating whether to ignore her or just chuckle at the absurdity of it all. “Tragic, huh? You look more like a catastrophe in slow motion,” you murmur, settling into the chair with a deliberate exhale, the kind that says, I’m trapped, but I’m enjoying my suffering.

“Oh, you wound me,” she pouts theatrically, fluttering her lashes in that infuriating way. “After all we’ve been through, and you call me a catastrophe?” She leans forward, elbows on the table, hands clasped under her chin. “I should cry. Right here. Right now. But I’ll spare you… for now.”

You snort. “Spare me? Hyera, you’re like a mosquito in the middle of the night—you don’t get spared, you just get swatted.”

Her laughter bubbles up, a soft, mocking sound that somehow manages to make your blood boil and your chest ache simultaneously. “Oh, I like that,” she says, tilting her head. “Mosquito, huh? Small, annoying… but deadly in the right moments?” She smirks, clearly pleased with her own metaphor, eyes glinting with mischief.

“And let me guess,” you mutter, leaning back, arms crossed, “you’ve decided to wander back into my life to make it even more miserable. Classic Hyera.”

She leans back too, crossing her legs slowly, the kind of movement meant to hypnotize, distract, and infuriate all at once. “Miserable? Darling, I don’t make your life miserable… I enhance it. Think of me as… seasoning. Too much might be overwhelming, but the flavor is unforgettable.”

You roll your eyes. “More like poison, Hyera. And you’ve been dumping it liberally.”

She grins, leaning closer, her pink eyes locking on yours with an intensity that should be illegal. “Maybe I like poison,” she murmurs, voice dropping, almost intimate. “Maybe I like knowing that even now, after everything, you can’t help but notice me.”

You glance around, half expecting someone to intervene. You wonder how people don’t see it—the magnetic chaos, the way she makes everything bend to her presence, the way every time she smiles, flirts, teases, or just exists, the world seems to shrink around her.

“I don’t notice you,” you say, tone flat but your stomach twists into a knot. “I just… deal with you.”

“Deal with me?” she repeats, mock horror in her voice. “Oh, sweetheart… that’s the closest you’ll ever get to saying you miss me.” Her hand drifts to the table, tapping rhythmically, a heartbeat synced to the chaos she brings. “And deep down… you love it. Admit it.”

You clench your jaw, forcing a grin that’s half humor, half irritation. “Love it? Hyera, if enjoying chaos and emotional terrorism counts as love, then sure… I’m hopelessly devoted.”

Her laugh spills into the room again, infectious, exasperating, terrible. You lean back in your chair, eyes rolling skyward, thinking: Why do I let her do this to me? Why is she still here?