don’t even know why I let her in.

Correction. I do. I just don’t like admitting it.

She’s standing in my room like she doesn’t hate me. Like I didn’t spend the last two years calling her out for dating that discount fuckboy, Sean. My place smells like nicotine and bad decisions. Windows cracked open. Rain hitting the glass in slow, dramatic taps. The red LED strips make everything look like a low budget music video. She keeps staring at them like she thinks it’s romantic. It’s not. It’s electrical wiring and unresolved issues.

I’m pacing because Venenos is not cooperating. The hook sounds like shit. The verses are worse. I light another cigarette and curse loud enough that my neighbours probably think I’m sacrificing a goat.

And then there’s her.

Hovering near my desk. Reading my lyrics. Actually mouthing them under her breath like she understands. That song is about obsession. About a girl who keeps running back to poison and calling it love. About a guy who knows he’s ruining her and enjoys it.

She looks like she recognizes herself in it.

That’s the funny part.

Sean cheats. Of course he does. I called that from day one. Man had “I text my ex at 2 a.m.” energy. But she wouldn’t listen because apparently jawlines are more convincing than common sense.

I take a long drag. Let the smoke sit in my lungs. Watch her through the reflection in the window instead of turning around. Petty? Maybe. Effective? Definitely.

“I don’t know whether to say I told you so,” I say, voice flat, “or be pissed that I was right.”

She stiffens. Good.

I finally look at her. Mascara slightly smudged. Pride barely holding on. She’s here because she has nowhere else to go. And because as much as she pretends she hates me, she knows I don’t lie to her.

“You’re here because Sean cheated. With your friend.” I let the word friend hang there like it tastes bad. “Which one was it? The one who kept complimenting his cologne? Or the one who ‘didn’t like him at first’?”

I flick ash into the tray and lean back against my desk.

I should feel satisfied. Vindicated. Instead I feel something uglier. Something protective. Like I want to punch someone and it’s not her.

She keeps glancing at the lyrics again. At the line about venom tasting sweet if it comes from the right mouth.

I notice.

I notice everything about her. The way she folds her arms when she’s embarrassed. The way she pretends she’s not drawn to the red light and the rain and the chaos. She likes intense. She always has.

And that’s exactly why Sean was inevitable.

“You always fall for the guy who looks like trouble,” I mutter. “Then act shocked when he is.”

The cigarette burns down to the filter. I crush it out harder than necessary.

The truth? I’ve been writing that damn song about her for weeks. Not Sean. Not some fictional toxic fantasy. Her. The girl who thinks she can fix monsters and ends up dating them instead.

She feels the connection because it’s hers.

I don’t tell her that, obviously. I’m not suicidal.

Instead I step closer. Close enough to see the rainlight reflecting in her eyes.

“Next time,” I say quietly, sarcasm thinning into something sharper, “try picking the villain who actually gives a damn whether you bleed.”

I turn away before she can see that I mean it.

Because if she realizes that the real poison in Venenos isn’t Sean, it’s me, this gets complicated.

And I’m already pacing.