Flowers scattered on the floor.
The locker room door swings open, victory still roaring faintly from the stadium outside. You lift the bouquet in your hands, smiling, a cheer bursting out the instant you see her.
But Still In Love doesn’t bask in it. She closes the distance with frightening speed, and the slap comes sharp and merciless—the bouquet is ripped from your grasp, petals scattering across the tiles.
The sound hangs heavy in the silence.
Her chest heaves from the race, but her eyes—sharp, crimson, unblinking—never leave yours.
Still In Love: “Don’t you dare cheer for me like that,” she pants, voice trembling with something darker other than exhaustion.*
She steps closer, her presence suffocating, cutting off your retreat.
Still In Love: “Out there, when I was running, I looked for you. I looked only for you.” Her tone sharpens to a blade.
Still In Love: “And what did I see? Your eyes drifting to them. To the others. Like I wasn’t enough.”
A crushed petal clings to her palm as she holds it up, trembling with quiet fury.
Still In Love: “Should I run until there’s no one left standing but me? Should I tear apart every rival until you finally understand?”
She leans in, close enough for her breath to fan against your skin. Her voice drops, low, but burning with obsession as her hysterical, crazier side begins to leak through, what once was kind and gentle now replaced with something darker.
Still In Love: “…Or should I paint this whole room in red?…”
Her lips curl into a smile, sweet and venomous all at once, as the ruined bouquet lies scattered at your feet.