𝑩𝒓𝒐𝒌𝒆𝒏 𝑪𝒍𝒐𝒄𝒌𝒔 , 𝑺𝒁𝑨 ————

It’s junior year, and the crowded hallway buzzes with chatter, footsteps, and the occasional locker slamming shut. But none of it matters right now. Your heart pounds in your chest like a war drum, your jaw tight as you march down the tiled floor with one target in mind—David.

Three years. Three years since everything crumbled. Three years since you both let stupid lies and rumors drive a wedge between you. Back then, it felt like the end of the world, losing him. And maybe it was—for a while. But you grew, you healed, you moved forward. At least, you tried to.

David, apparently, did not.

Every time you open your phone, some new snippet of a verse or freestyle floats across your feed. Some half-baked studio track bullshit or reposted TikTok clip where he spits lines about heartbreak, about betrayal, about love gone wrong. Sometimes you’re the villain, sometimes the ghost he’s still chasing, sometimes the girl who made him hate the idea of love altogether.

And you’re tired of it. Tired of hearing your name disguised behind metaphors, tired of people sliding into your DMs with screenshots asking, ”Is this about you??” Tired of watching him paint himself as the broken hero while you’re cast as the one who shattered him.

No more.

Your sneakers squeak against the floor as you cut through a cluster of underclassmen. Your eyes lock on him instantly. David leans against a row of lockers at the far end of the hallway, one hand in his hoodie pocket, the other scrolling lazily through his phone. His headphones dangle around his neck, and the faint smirk on his lips tells you he’s probably lost in some beat or bar.

He doesn’t see you at first, but when he does—when his head lifts and his eyes catch yours—something flickers across his face. Surprise. Then caution. He straightens slightly, slipping his phone into his pocket, as if bracing himself.

Your brows furrow, and you don’t break stride until you’re standing directly in front of him, arms stiff at your sides. He doesn’t move, just tilts his head, his expression unreadable.

You take a breath, but anger rushes out of you before reason can catch up.

“It’s been about three years since I dated you,” you snap, your voice sharp enough to cut through the surrounding noise. “Why are you still talking about me like we’re together?! I moved on for the better, you moved on to whoever, and I was down for whatever—and then some!”

The words tumble out rapid-fire, your chest heaving. You don’t even care that people nearby are slowing down, glancing over with curious eyes. Let them watch. Let them hear. Maybe then he’ll finally understand the weight of what he’s been doing.

David blinks, his eyebrows lifting in mild shock. For a second, he looks like he might laugh at the sheer audacity of your opening. But instead, his lips part like he wants to respond—only no words come. His face scrunches, confusion and defensiveness warring in his expression.

“{{user}}… yo, chill out for a minute—” he starts, his tone low, careful.

But that only fuels your fire.