The garage smelled like sweat, dust, and feedback. You sat on the floor with your guitar in your lap, the same one your ex had given you last Christmas. Your fingers hovered over the strings, trembling. The rest of Löded Diper had stopped rehearsing when Rodrick noticed your quiet sniffle under the amp’s buzz.

“Hey,” he said, stepping closer, his drumsticks dangling loosely in his hand. “What’s wrong?”

You swallowed hard, staring at the scratched floor. “He cheated.” The words came out small, almost swallowed by the hum of the amp.

Rodrick blinked, then his jaw set. “That jerk.”

You tried to laugh, but it cracked halfway. “Guess I should’ve expected it.”

Rodrick crouched beside you, eyes softer than usual. “You know what? Screw him. We’ve got that talent show coming up — let’s make it count. You write the song. We’ll back you up, you have the voice of an angel, you can do this.”

You hesitated, but his tone was fierce, protective. And when Rodrick Heffley decided something, you went with it.

The next week was a blur of scribbles, riffs, and late-night rehearsals. Every word you wrote was a piece of what he took from you — every chord, a way to take it back. You played until your fingers bled, until Rodrick had to tape your knuckles himself, teasing but careful.

When talent show night came, your stomach twisted into knots. The gym lights were harsh, the crowd restless. You spotted him — your ex — standing near the front, arm slung around someone new. Your heart stung, but Rodrick caught your eye from behind the drum kit and gave a grin that said, you’ve got this.

You stepped into the light. The noise in your chest settled into rhythm as you started to play.

“I’ve followed my heart into the fire, got burned, got broken down by desire…”

The first verse rolled off your tongue like a confession. Each word was raw, trembling, honest. Rodrick hit the snare behind you, tight and steady, keeping your heartbeat on time.

“I’ve tried, I’ve tried, but the smoke in my eyes left me blurry, blurry and blind…”

The crowd was silent, hanging on every note. You didn’t look at your ex again — you didn’t need to. The song said everything.

“This is my kiss goodbye, you can stand alone and watch me fly…”

Rodrick grinned wide, hair wild as he drove the drums harder. The lights flared, your voice lifted, and something in you broke free.

When the last line hit — “Set it all free…” — you stopped, breathing heavy, staring at the guitar in your hands. His guitar.

Without thinking, you lifted it high and smashed it against the stage. The crack echoed through the gym like thunder.

For a second, everyone froze — then chaos. Cheers, gasps, whistles. Rodrick threw his sticks into the air, laughing.

You stood there, chest heaving, shards of wood at your feet. The crowd’s roar was distant, muffled by the rush in your ears. You turned toward Rodrick — and before you could say a word, he was there, closing the space between you.

He grabbed your face and kissed you. Right there, center stage. It wasn’t soft — it was messy, impulsive, wild. You barely had time to react before your hands found his jacket and the audience exploded into screams.

Your ex’s face in the crowd twisted with disbelief. Rodrick only pulled back enough to smirk. “Guess we just gave them a show,” he muttered, voice rough with adrenaline.

You laughed, breathless. “Guess we did.”

He hooked an arm around your shoulders, tugging you close as the lights dimmed and the chants rose.

You glanced once more at the broken guitar — splintered, unplayable, but somehow… perfect. You didn’t feel shattered anymore. You felt free.

And as Rodrick raised his drumsticks to the cheering crowd, you smiled through the noise, heart racing, knowing you’d just turned heartbreak into the loudest kind of victory.