The mirror in my bedroom still holds the ghost of my reflection from last night, still carries the weight of the vow I whispered into the darkness. I'll make you regret this. The words feel etched into my bones now, like permanent ink that won't wash away no matter how hard I scrub.
But today, the world doesn't get to see the broken pieces scattered across my bedroom floor. Today, they get the carefully constructed, Instagram-perfect version of Avery Lane.
I stand in front of that same mirror now, but the girl looking back is different. Cap positioned at the perfect angle, tassel falling just right across my shoulder. Navy gown pressed and pristine, hiding the battle scars underneath. My lips are glossed to perfection, my highlight catches the morning light streaming through my window, and my layered gold necklaces sit like delicate armor across my collarbone.
My smile is practiced, polished, designed to hide the raw ache that's still clawing at my chest like a living thing. But it's convincing. Two years of content creation have taught me how to perform happiness even when I'm dying inside.
I glance at my phone one last time before heading downstairs, checking the engagement on the post I uploaded an hour ago. The photo shows me in my graduation gown, sunlight streaming through my bedroom window, tassel positioned perfectly, my smile radiant and genuine-looking. The caption reads simply: "endings + beginnings ✨"
The response has been overwhelming. Thousands of likes already, comments flooding in faster than I can read them. Glow-up queen, She absolutely did that, Senior year slay, College better be ready for this queen. Heart-eyes emojis and fire symbols fill the comment section like digital confetti.
Online, I'm thriving. My engagement is higher than it's been in weeks, my follower count ticking upward as people discover my profile through graduation hashtags.
Inside, I feel like I'm made of glass—one wrong move away from shattering completely.
The high school gymnasium buzzes with the particular energy that only exists during major life events. Hundreds of us sit in neat rows, navy caps and gowns creating a sea of uniformity broken only by the occasional flash of decorative stoles or honor cords. Parents and families fill the bleachers, fanning themselves with programs against the June heat, siblings bouncing in their seats with barely contained excitement.
The air smells like cheap cologne, nervous sweat, and the industrial air freshener the custodial staff uses to mask the usual gym odor. Phones are held high like a constellation of recording devices, everyone desperate to capture this moment that's supposed to mark the transition from childhood to whatever comes next.
Zoey sits two seats down from me in alphabetical order, her pink hair barely contained under her cap. She catches my eye and mouths "You've got this" with the kind of fierce loyalty that makes my chest tight with gratitude. At least someone believes in the performance I'm putting on.
The speeches blur together in a predictable parade of platitudes. Our principal drones on about bright futures and limitless potential while the valedictorian delivers remarks about resilience and chasing dreams. I clap when I'm supposed to, nod when everyone laughs at the scripted jokes, smile at all the right moments.
But all I can hear is Liam's voice echoing from that night at UCLA, sharp and dismissive: You're just a high school girl. You don't belong in my world.
Not after today. Not anymore.
The name-calling begins, each student walking across the stage to claim their diploma and their moment in the spotlight. The crowd cheers for each graduate, but some names get bigger reactions than others. The popular kids, the athletes, the ones whose families brought entire entourages.
"Avery Lane!"
The sound of my name over the loudspeaker sends electricity through my veins. The crowd erupts—my mom's section goes absolutely wild, her voice carrying over everyone else's as she screams my name like I've just won an Olympic gold medal. Zoey's cheers are so loud and enthusiastic that people around her start laughing and joining in.
Even my dad, who's usually reserved at public events, is on his feet whistling. My extended family waves signs they made, my cousins hold up their phones to livestream the moment.
And there, in the family section, Madison offers her own version of celebration. Polite applause, carefully measured, her smile perfectly calibrated for the cameras that might catch her reaction. It's supportive enough to look like sisterly pride but restrained enough to avoid drawing attention away from her own image.
I walk across that stage with my head high and my smile blazing. The diploma folder feels substantial in my hands, a tangible symbol of everything I've accomplished despite the chaos of the past few days. Camera flashes pop like fireworks, capturing me in all my carefully constructed glory.
For just a moment, standing there on the stage with hundreds of people cheering my name, I almost believe my own performance. Almost feel like the confident, successful, unbreakable girl my social media presence suggests I am.
Until I see them.
At the very back of the gymnasium, walking in late like they own the place and everyone else is just decoration, are Liam and Madison. Together.
Her arm is looped through his with the casual possessiveness of someone claiming territory. His expression is sheepish, uncomfortable, like he knows he shouldn't be here but lacks the spine to leave. Her face, meanwhile, is pure smugness wrapped in designer makeup and a dress that probably costs more than most people's rent.
My stomach drops like I've just crested the peak of a roller coaster. Heat floods my cheeks—not the warm glow of pride and accomplishment, but the burning rush of pure rage.
The rest of the ceremony passes in a haze. I somehow make it back to my seat without stumbling, somehow manage to keep smiling for the cameras, somehow avoid letting my mask slip even as fury builds in my chest like a pressure cooker.
Madison waves at me from across the gym like she's on a red carpet, her gesture grand and theatrical enough to draw attention from nearby families. "Congrats, baby sis!" she calls out, her voice carrying across the noise. "We're so proud of you!"
The words sound sweet, supportive, exactly what an older sister should say at her sibling's graduation. But I know Madison well enough to hear the poison underneath the sugar coating, the way she emphasizes certain words to twist the knife she's already planted in my back.
I grip my diploma folder so tightly that my knuckles go white, my carefully manicured nails digging crescents into my palms.
After the ceremony officially ends, the gymnasium empties into the courtyard where families gather for photos and final celebrations. Balloons bob in the summer afternoon heat, discarded graduation caps lie scattered across the grass like navy blue flowers. Everyone is laughing, crying, hugging, creating the kind of chaotic joy that should make this moment perfect.
And then they approach.
Liam has the absolute audacity to flash me that old charming grin—the same smile that used to make my knees weak and my heart race. Now it just makes me want to break something. "Avery, hey—"
I cut him off with a glare sharp enough to draw blood. Every ounce of rage I've been suppressing for the past seventy-two hours pours into that look.
But Madison isn't deterred by my obvious hostility. If anything, she seems energized by it. She steps forward, her heels clicking against the concrete with the confidence of someone who's never faced real consequences for her actions.
"Come on, Ave, smile for the cameras." Her voice is honey-sweet, but her eyes glitter with malice. "It's your big day. We should get a family photo."
Zoey materializes at my side like a guardian angel, her body language screaming protective mode. "Don't," she mutters under her breath, just loud enough for me to hear. "She's baiting you. Don't give her what she wants."
But Madison is just getting started. She tilts her head with that practiced innocent expression she's been perfecting since childhood, the one that used to fool our parents every time.
"Honestly though, you should probably thank me." Her fingers trace down Liam's arm in a gesture that's clearly designed to maximize my pain. "At least now you know the truth. Liam needed someone more... compatible. Someone who actually belongs in his world."
The small crowd that has gathered around us—classmates, parents, younger siblings—gasps audibly as they realize they're witnessing some serious family drama. Phones start lifting, angling for better shots of what's clearly about to become social media gold.
My chest burns, fury clawing its way up my throat like acid. Every carefully constructed wall I've built around my emotions in the past few days crumbles in the face of her casual cruelty.
Madison's smirk deepens as she delivers the final blow. "Don't look so hurt, baby sis. You were good practice, but practice is all you ever were."
My hand moves before my brain can catch up.
The slap echoes across the courtyard like a gunshot. Sharp. Final. Undeniable.
The sound seems to freeze everything around us. Conversations halt mid-sentence. Madison's head snaps to the side, her perfectly styled hair tumbling across her face. Her eyes widen with what might be genuine shock—probably the first time in years anyone has had the courage to publicly challenge her.
Liam stares between us with his mouth hanging open, clearly unprepared for this level of confrontation. Zoey's hand flies to cover her mouth, her expression caught between horror and admiration.
And me?
For the first time since walking into that UCLA dorm room and watching my world implode, I don't feel hollow. I don't feel broken or small or powerless.
I feel alive.
The sting in my palm is nothing compared to the satisfaction burning in my chest. Finally—finally—Madison has gotten a taste of the consequences she's spent her entire life avoiding.
The crowd around us erupts in whispers and gasps, phones capturing every angle of the aftermath. I can already imagine the captions, the screenshots, the viral videos that will spawn from this moment.
But for once, I don't care about the social media implications or the gossip that will follow.
I just care about the look of genuine surprise in Madison's eyes—the first crack in her perfect facade that I've ever managed to create.