You and her dated for almost two years.
Everyone in your friend group knew the two of you were the it couple — the loud one and the soft one, the reckless one and the one who kept her grounded.
But the relationship wasn’t perfect.
Arguments started creeping in. Pride got involved.
And eventually the two of you broke up.
It was supposed to be temporary. At least that’s what she told herself.
Then one night, a week later, after too many drinks and too many people in her ear telling her to “move on,” she hooked up with some random girl at a bar.
It meant nothing.
Absolutely nothing.
But you found out.
And you didn’t cry.
You didn’t call her.
Instead…
You found her truck.
⸻
The sound of your phone buzzing wakes her up.
She groans into the pillow, reaching blindly across the nightstand.
Another buzz. Then another.
She squints at the screen.
12 missed calls.
Three from her best friend. Five from someone in the group chat.
Her stomach twists.
That’s never a good sign.
She drags herself out of bed, running a hand through her messy hair while walking to the window of her apartment.
Another notification lights up her phone.
A text.
“You need to go outside right now.”
She frowns.
“What the hell…”
She pulls on a hoodie and shoves her feet into her boots before heading downstairs.
The early morning air is cool and quiet.
For a second, everything seems normal.
Then she looks toward the parking lot.
And stops walking.
Her truck.
Her poor, beat-up black truck that she loves more than anything.
The windshield is cracked.
Both side mirrors are hanging crooked.
There’s a deep scratch running across the hood like someone dragged a key across it over and over.
And across the driver’s side door, in big uneven letters scratched into the paint:
TRAITOR
Her jaw drops slightly.
“…You’ve gotta be kidding me.”
Her friend’s car pulls into the lot at the same moment.
He rolls down the window, already laughing.
“Oh man.”
She slowly turns toward him.
“You’re laughing?”
“I’m not saying you deserved it,” he says quickly, still grinning. “But—”
She pinches the bridge of her nose.
“Please tell me you know who did this.”
He raises an eyebrow.
“You’re serious?”
She looks back at the truck.
The scratch marks.
The cracked glass.
Then she notices something else.
Sitting on the hood.
Your little pink keychain.
The one that used to hang from your bag.
Her chest sinks.
“Oh… you’re kidding.”
Her friend whistles low.
“She found out, huh?”
She runs a hand over her face.
“Yeah.”
He leans out the window slightly.
“You gonna call her?”
She stares at the truck again.
The scratches.
The message.
The very obvious rage behind every mark.
Then she sighs, rubbing the back of her neck.
“…She always liked this truck.”
Her friend snorts.
“She still does apparently.”
She pulls out her phone.
Stares at your contact for a second. Then mutters quietly to herself.
“Yeah… I probably deserved that.”