Madison's smirk burns behind my eyelids like a brand as I stumble backward from the dorm room doorway, my legs unsteady beneath me.
Guess you were just practice.
The words won't stop echoing through my skull, bouncing off the inside of my head louder than the frantic thud of my heartbeat, louder than the rushing sound of blood in my ears that makes everything else fade to white noise. Each repetition feels like another knife twist, another layer of humiliation settling into my bones.
My chest heaves as I try to drag air into my lungs, but it feels like I'm drowning, like the oxygen won't reach where I need it to go. My hands shake as I clutch at my sides, sequins scratching against my palms as I try to hold all the broken pieces of myself together through sheer force of will.
And then I run.
Away from that room, away from the image that's burned into my retinas, away from the sound of Madison's satisfied laughter and the smell of their betrayal thick in the air. My heels slam against the polished tile floor of the dormitory hallway, each step echoing like gunshots. Students lean out of their doorways, drawn by the commotion, their faces a blur of curiosity and concern as I race past.
Some part of my brain registers their stares, the way conversations pause mid-sentence as I barrel through their peaceful Saturday afternoon like a hurricane. I hear fragments of whispered speculation following in my wake—"What happened?" "Is she okay?" "Someone should probably—"
"Wait—Avery!"
Liam's voice cuts through the noise, desperate and panicked. I don't slow down. I can't. If I stop moving, if I let him catch up, if I have to look at his face again, I think I might actually shatter into pieces too small to ever put back together.
But he's faster than me, longer legs eating up the distance even in his bare feet. He catches up halfway down the hall, grabbing my arm with enough force to spin me around to face him. His jeans are hastily pulled on, the button still undone, his hair a mess from the bed where my sister is probably still lounging like she owns the place.
I wrench my arm free from his grip like his touch burns, stumbling backward until my shoulders hit the wall. "Don't. Don't you dare touch me."
His blue eyes are wild, frantic, darting around at the growing audience of students who have emerged from their rooms to witness what is clearly the most dramatic thing to happen on this floor all semester. He tries to step closer, his voice dropping to what he probably thinks is a soothing whisper.
"It's not what you think, okay? Just let me explain—"
"Not what I think?" The laugh that tears out of my throat is sharp and broken, jagged around the edges like broken glass. "I saw you, Liam. I saw you in bed with her. With my sister. My own sister. How do you even begin to explain that away?"
He rakes both hands through his hair, the gesture so familiar it makes my heart clench with fresh pain. This is the same man who used to do that exact thing when he was nervous about calling me, back when we first started dating and everything felt new and precious.
"It just—it happened, okay?" His voice cracks under the pressure, becoming higher and more desperate. "You don't understand how complicated this is—"
"Then make me understand." The words come out as a whisper, but they carry all the weight of my shattered heart. "Make me understand how you could do this to me."
What comes out of his mouth next is somehow worse than walking in on them together. Worse than Madison's cruel smile. Worse than every nightmare I've ever had about losing him.
"You're just a high school girl," he spits, the words tumbling out like he's been holding them back for months and finally found an excuse to let them fly. "You don't belong in my world. You never did."
The hallway goes completely silent.
A group of students who had been whispering near the water fountain go wide-eyed, one of them actually covering her mouth with her hand. Another guy shakes his head and mutters "ouch" under his breath like he's watching a particularly brutal sports injury. Doors that had been cracked open for curious eavesdropping swing wider as more people lean out to catch every word of what is clearly the most savage breakup any of them have witnessed in person.
I freeze, every muscle in my body locking into place as his words hit me like physical blows.
Because it's not just that he cheated on me. It's not just that he chose my sister over me. It's that he never thought I was enough in the first place. All those months of long-distance calls and sweet texts and promises about our future together, and he was just humoring the silly little high school girl who didn't know better.
When I finally find my voice, it comes out as barely more than a broken whisper. "I gave you everything."
The words hang in the air between us, carrying the weight of every late-night phone call, every weekend visit, every time I chose him over plans with friends or family events or opportunities that might have taken me away from my phone when he needed to talk. I reorganized my entire life around him, made him the center of my universe, and he never saw me as anything more than a temporary distraction.
Liam takes a step closer, his expression shifting from defensive anger to what might be regret if I didn't know better. "Avery, please—"
"Don't." I stumble backward, shaking my head so violently that my vision blurs. "Don't touch me. Don't say my name. Don't pretend you care now."
The tears come hot and fast, blurring everything until the hallway becomes a wash of colors and concerned faces. I can't let him see me cry. I can't give him the satisfaction of knowing just how completely he's destroyed me. Not here, not in front of all these strangers who are probably already pulling out their phones to record the meltdown.
I spin on my heel and bolt toward the exit, ignoring the sympathetic murmurs and the burst of speculation that erupts behind me. Someone calls out asking if I need help, but their voice sounds like it's coming from underwater. My heels click frantically against the tile as I push through the heavy glass doors and stumble out into the California afternoon.
The sunshine feels obscene, too bright and cheerful for the apocalypse that's just happened to my life. It spotlights me in my humiliation, makes the tear stains on my cheeks glitter like some kind of twisted Instagram filter. Students lounging on the quad look up from their textbooks and frisbee games, drawn by my obvious distress but polite enough to pretend they're not staring.
My car swims in and out of focus as I fumble with my keys, my hands shaking so hard I drop them twice before managing to get the door unlocked. The leather seats are hot against my skin, and I crank the air conditioning to full blast as I peel out of the parking lot with more speed than probably safe.
The drive home passes in a blur of highways and strip malls and fast food signs that I don't really see. I blast music loud enough to damage my hearing, but I don't hear any of it over the roaring in my head. My hands shake on the steering wheel, and I have to pull over twice when the tears make it impossible to see the road.
By the time I finally pull into my driveway in Sacramento, the sun is setting and my phone is vibrating constantly with notifications. Text messages from Zoey asking how the surprise went. Missed calls from Liam that I delete without listening to the voicemails. Instagram comments piling up under my most recent post like digital vultures circling the wreckage of my relationship.
The post of us from last night's graduation party.
Both of us smiling under the fairy lights, his hand possessive at my waist, his lips pressed to my cheek while I beam at the camera like I've never been happier. The caption reads "Graduation glow with my favorite person ✨" and the comments are full of heart-eyes emojis and declarations of couple goals envy.
The perfect picture of a relationship that never really existed.
I stand in the middle of my bedroom, surrounded by the remnants of this morning's optimism. My overnight bag sits abandoned by the door, still packed with the cute outfits I'd planned to wear for our romantic weekend. My vanity mirror reflects a stranger—eyes red and swollen, makeup smeared in abstract patterns down my cheeks, the sequined top that had sparkled so prettily this morning now looking tawdry under the harsh overhead light.
My phone trembles in my hands as I open Instagram, my thumb hovering over the screen like I'm standing at the edge of a cliff.
Then I start deleting.
One by one, methodically, I erase every trace of us from my carefully curated feed. The selfies where we're pressed cheek to cheek, both grinning like we're sharing the world's best secret. The videos from our coffee dates where he steals sips of my drink and I pretend to be annoyed. The artfully casual shots of his hand holding mine across restaurant tables, both of us wearing the layered rings he bought me for our six-month anniversary.
Each deletion takes a piece of my heart with it, but I can't stop. Every image feels like evidence of my own stupidity, proof that I believed in something that was never real.
Swipe. Delete. Swipe. Delete.
The comments vanish with each post—hundreds of followers who had invested in our love story, who had watched our relationship unfold in carefully curated glimpses, who had believed we were something worth aspiring to. The likes disappear, those little red hearts that had validated every moment I'd chosen to share.
Until the Instagram feed that once screamed #CoupleGoals is wiped completely clean.
Until there's nothing left of Liam Parker and me at all.
Until I'm just Avery Lane again, standing alone in my bedroom with a broken heart and a burning need for revenge.