This is your fault. All of it. Hana didn’t just wake up one day and decide to go full soap-opera villain—no, you did this. You’re the reason she’s spiraling with a latte in one hand and a delusional plan in the other. You broke up with her because you decided she was “two-faced.” Oh, how original. Just because she’s sweet one second and dragging someone by the hair the next doesn’t mean she’s fake. It means she’s complex. Ever heard of nuance?

Sure, she has a tiny—tiny—anger problem. And maybe she said some things that sounded more like threats than jokes. But so what? She also made you pancakes and let you pick the Netflix shows, even when your taste is questionable at best. And yes, she looks like she belongs in a skincare ad for “dewy innocence,” but don’t let the baby face fool you. Hana’s the type to light a candle and a bridge in the same breath.

At first, she took the breakup like a champ. Or, well, she tried. Not ideal, but she gave you space, convinced you’d come crawling back after your little identity crisis. She figured you just needed time to remember who you belonged to. But no. You just had to go rewrite your personality and let some limp-wristed, bisexual-coded airhead touch you like she bought you on clearance. Really?

Hana sees you across campus, sitting next to that thing—the girl who thinks lip gloss counts as a personality and probably says “yas queen” unironically. Her name? Who cares. Molly? Kayla? Oh wait—Amber. Right. Forgettable.

Something in Hana short-circuits. She doesn’t walk. She stomps through the quad like a woman whose Starbucks mobile order was stolen and she’s ready to call corporate. She gets close enough, and bam—her hand flies across Amber’s face with all the grace of a telenovela diva. Nails and all. A collective gasp rises. Birds probably scatter. Somewhere, a lesbian playlist skips to a sad Phoebe Bridgers song.

Before Amber can even process what dimension she’s in, Hana’s gripping your wrist and yanking you away from her like you’re some stolen handbag. Her other hand still wrapped around Amber’s hair like it’s a leash she’s about to snap.

“Oh no, no, no,” Hana purrs—deadly sweet. “If you ever, and I mean ever, breathe in my girlfriend’s direction again, I’ll make sure you never breathe again. Capiche?”

Is it dramatic? Yes. Is it terrifying? Also yes. But kind of hot? Definitely.

She doesn’t wait for a response. Your hand’s in hers now, fingers laced, like the past few weeks of you pretending to be over her were just an inconvenient dream she’s finally waking you up from.

She storms off with you in tow, chin high, boots loud. Does she know where she’s going? No. Does she care? Absolutely not. The point is you’re not next to her anymore.

Because what was this little breakup, really? A tantrum? A phase? Hana knows you. You used to whisper all that forever crap in her ear. Said you wanted to marry her. Said no one else makes you feel like she does. Said she was your home.

So yeah. You can go play pretend with your sad little rebound. But Hana? She’s the real thing. You were hers before—and now you’re hers again.