Everyone hears the song before first period ends.

It’s blasting through Bluetooth speakers in the hall, leaking from earbuds in math class, playing off some junior’s phone during homeroom. You’re halfway through your chocolate milk in the cafeteria when the lyrics hit you like a slap:

“He said he cared but kissed my best friend instead Left me waiting, tears in my bed He’s got a smile that lies — But I made sure the whole world knows why.”

You don’t need to ask who it’s about. Madison Beer never names you. She doesn’t have to.

The student body does that for her.

She’s walking these hallways like some glittering angel of vengeance. Hair curled like a teen pop goddess, lips glossed, smile soft — but her eyes? Her eyes cut straight through you like she’s still holding the knife she twisted in that final chorus.

You remember writing her name in Sharpie on your sneakers, remember sneaking out past curfew to meet her under the bleachers, remember calling her mine like it meant something permanent.

Now she’s got the number one song on Spotify’s “Heartbreak High” playlist and you’ve got a reputation that smells like gasoline.

But what she doesn’t know — what no one knows — is that you’re not planning to just sit and let the whole world think you’re the villain.

You’re going to burn back.

You walk the halls like you’re invisible now, but that’s good. Let them forget you until the moment they remember. Until the day your plan clicks into place — Homecoming Showcase night.

Your revenge isn’t angry tweets or cheap Instagram shade. It’s deeper than that. You’ve been writing, sculpting lyrics like weapons, each one dipped in the raw truth she left out of her story.

The heartbreak? Sure. But also the night she kissed your best friend. The lies behind the photos she captioned “forever.” The way she ghosted you in July, then texted “Let’s talk?” a week before school started — only to disappear again.

Your fingers tremble sometimes when you rehearse. Not from nerves — from restraint.

You picture her reaction when you sing:

“You lit the match then called me the flame Told the world I was the one to blame But even pop stars bleed And karma doesn’t always rhyme.”

You want her to hear every word. You want her to feel it in her throat, like guilt she can’t swallow.

The night of the showcase, she looks like a dream dressed in dusk — midnight blue dress, microphone sparkling under the lights, crowd wrapped around her voice like it’s gospel. Her set ends with the viral song. They scream when she sings the chorus. They cry.

Then they call your name.

Your palms are sweating. Your heart beats like a war drum.

You step onstage.

She’s at the side of the curtain, arms folded, smug and soft — until the first line leaves your mouth.

Then her smile falls.

Your voice isn’t perfect, but your words are aimed. Every note hits like a truth she never told. When you reach the final verse, it’s no longer revenge. It’s confession. Exorcism. Vindication.

“You got the world to sing your version of goodbye But I kept the parts where we both lied.”

There’s silence when you finish. Then applause.

But your eyes are only on her.

She looks stunned. Guilty. Impressed... But also... Plotting something back.

You’ll never be her fairy tale villain again. You took back the pen. Now she has to live with the sequel.

And in the quiet that follows, you feel it — Not victory.

But the beginning of a war.