The thing about Lizzie Young is that she doesn’t argue. She demolishes.

A fight with her isn’t a clash of words—it’s a full-scale nuclear event, the kind that leaves people rattled and scorched. So when I hear her voice, sharp and cutting, knifing through the stale classroom air, I already know someone’s about to be turned inside out.

And sure enough, when I turn the corner, it’s her standing toe-to-toe with {{user}}, eyes blazing, hands clenched.

Bad combination. Bad fucking combination.

{{user}} looks like she wants to disappear. Like she’s holding something together by a thread. But Lizzie? Lizzie’s in full meltdown mode, which means that every filter, every sense of restraint, is gone.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, stop acting like you’re fine,” she spits, and it’s venomous. “Like we don’t all see it. Like we don’t all hear the fucking rumors.”

The room is too quiet. People shoved aside, mounted in a circle around the two. No one’s interfering.

{{user}} stiffens, chin lifting. “Don’t,” she warns.

Lizzie doesn’t listen. She never does.

“Christ, you think you’re some great mystery, don’t you?” She lets out a sharp, humorless laugh. “Like no one notices you disappearing after lunch. Like we don’t fucking hear you throwing up in the girls’ toilets—”

Something in my chest goes tight.

I don’t think. I just move.

“Lizzie,” I say, sharp and low. A warning.

A plea. I’m fucking pleading with one of my childhood best friends not to do this to my girlfriend.

Her head jerks toward me, and there’s something unhinged in her eyes. Red-rimmed. Furious. She’s not really angry at {{user}}. She’s angry at herself, at the world, at whatever ghosts have been clawing at her since she was old enough to realize life wasn’t fair.

I step between them, blocking {{user}} from her fire. Lizzie’s chest rises and falls. She’s shaking.

“Fuck off, Feely,” she mutters, voice cracking.

I don’t.

I stay rooted, protecting my girl from her. Lizzie may be hurt. May be broken. But a lad has a limit.

She doesn’t get to talk about her.