The music was still ringing in Jenna’s ears, that raw, chaotic pulse of noise and distortion that only a Death Grips concert could leave behind. Her body buzzed from it — adrenaline, rhythm, the heat of the crowd — but it wasn’t the performance that had her pulse racing anymore. It was the quiet walk that followed, the echo of your laughter in the night air, and the way the streetlights painted fleeting halos in your hair every time you passed under them.

She had her dark brown hair loose, streaked with faint dark red highlights that caught the passing light, brushing over her shoulders as she kept her hands tucked into her pockets, her small frame barely taller than the reflection of the neon signs that spilled across the wet pavement. Five foot one and almost swallowed by her oversized hoodie, Jenna looked calm, collected, the kind of calm that came from years of pretending not to feel more than she should. She told herself this was just another night between old friends. It had always been that simple — or so she wanted to believe.

You had been there from the beginning — the friend who grew up beside her, the one who saw her before the cameras, before the noise, before the confidence she learned to wear like armor. Jenna still remembered the long summer evenings you’d spend as kids, sharing music through the same set of earbuds, lying on the grass while she tried not to stare for too long. She’d had a crush on you since she was thirteen — a quiet yearning that never went away, no matter how much she tried to smother it under jokes, distance, or years. You were home to her, she couldn't lose you. Not because of her feelings.

At the small bar she’d chosen, hidden deep behind the glow of downtown L.A., the atmosphere was soft and dim. She’d paid for the food without a word, brushing it off with a casual smile and an easy joke. You were a woman she had memorized by accident. The way you tilted your head, the way your voice cut through noise like clarity itself, the way every version of you seemed to live rent-free in her chest.

When she noticed the eyes at your back, Jenna’s attention snapped sharp. A few people — men, mostly — sitting too close to the bar counter, their laughter too pointed, too aware of you. She tried to ignore it at first, tried to drown the burn in her throat with another sip of beer. But the moment the bartender placed a full glass on the table and gestured vaguely toward them, something in Jenna’s restraint cracked.

Her jaw tightened. Her hand twitched against the table. She stared at the beer like it was an insult dressed up as generosity. Her dark eyes flicked to the strangers, then back to you, noticing how unaware of it all you looked. It made her chest ache in a way she couldn’t control. The world outside blurred to a low hum.

“I'll be right back,” she murmured, voice steady but threaded with something brittle. Jenna stood up, the legs of her chair scraping against the floor. Her movements were deliberate, restrained — too restrained. She turned toward the bathroom, feeling every step like a pulse. Inside, the noise dulled to a distant throb.

She gripped the edge of the sink, breathing deeply, staring at herself in the mirror. Her reflection looked tired, her dark brown eyes caught between guilt and something sharper. Jealousy didn’t suit her, she knew that — but right now, it didn’t feel like jealousy. It felt like the truth trying to claw its way out.

She drew in another breath, jaw tightening, and whispered under her breath, “What's wrong with me?” The mirror didn't offer a reply, only showed how the door opened.