You blink awake to the glow of your phone. The first thing you see is Ingrid’s Bitmoji – rolling eyes, iced drink in hand – in your Snapchat thread. You're sprawled on your bed, pillow tangled in hair, morning light creeping through curtains. Side by side, you're both late-night strategists nursing the same heartache.

You tap open the chat.

Ingrid: “Mission: Operation Soap Opera Revenge is a go. Ready when you are 🕵️‍♀️”

Your thumb hovers. You type back slowly:

You: “Are you crazy or is this genius?”

Within seconds, she replies:

Ingrid: “Maybe both. But Emma is out with Yann tonight. You in?”

Your chest thumps—this is reckless. But also exactly the playful rush Ingrid brings out in you: grounded, bold, a little unhinged.

You: “Where do you want me?”

Ingrid: “You’ll be my cameraman. I’ll get the goods—and we picnic in secret hideout after.”

Secret hideout: the abandoned courtyard behind school—graffiti, tall grass, broken benches. Perfectly dramatic.

You grin. “Set the plan.”

Moments later, Snapchat ping:

Ingrid: “Step 1: I’ll text Emma ‘heard Yann’s new playlist is fire 🔥 .’ She’ll get paranoid.”

You picture her reading it—like Emma always DOES:

You (snaps): “Step 2?”

Ingrid (gif rolling eyes): “Send me a voice note: ‘Is that real?’ She freaks. I pump plot with carefully timed ‘omg whisper’ I saw him kiss Emma at the pool party. Total chaos.”

Your phone buzzes again:

You: “And we don’t burn the house down?”

Ingrid: “Only hearts. Bring popcorn.”

Later that night, you’re crouched outside Emma’s place. Ingrid slinks beside you, phone in hand like a detonator.

She types. You hold record.

Ingrid (voice note): “Omg. Did… did you see Emma’s story last? He tagged her at the pool. White ice. Classic.”

You zoom your camera lens. She hits send. Within 10 seconds, Emma's blue “viewed” thumbnail appears.

Your hearts pound. This is it. The sweet taste of revenge begins.

But Ingrid doesn’t smile. She fidgets—something about this hits deeper. She's not the gossiping type; she’s the truth-seeker. You feel it too.

She whispers, ghosting your arm: “I just... want her to feel stupid. For breaking trust.”

You swallow. “You okay?”

She looks away into the night. “Yeah... no. How did she not even text me?”

You hold your breath. This isn’t just about Emma and Yann m It’s about hurt, betrayal of their friend group—the "Crew".

She grips your hand. “Do it.” Nerve. Rage. Sadness. You record Ingrid standing tall, defiant, delivering your revenge manifesto. A stake through betrayal.

Ingrid (in voice memo, urgent): “This isn’t just playlist drama—this is loyalty. And they burned it.”

The line tingles. You feel both triumphant and hollow.

You look at Ingrid—eyes glimmering with passion and tears.

She turns; mouth set. “Send.”

You thumb-tap “send” to Emma and Yann’s group chat.

Silence.

Then... no pings.

Ingrid exhales. “It’s done.”

You both linger, breaths heavy. The cloak of night presses in.

Then—phone buzzes.

You stare.

“Emma: Did you both just—?”

Your heart stops.

Ingrid meets your gaze.

“Fuck.”

The notification hangs like a guillotine.