Archive of Our Own ^beta

Lia doesn’t know what to do without Zoey.

She was so sure when she left. So certain it was the right choice. What they had wasn’t healthy, never had been. Zoey was all teeth and venom wrapped in silk, and being close to her meant you learned how to bleed with a smile. She dragged people down the moment they looked like they might float, like she didn’t believe in anyone being better than her, especially not someone she called a friend.

But now? Lia doesn’t know what to do with the after.

It’s not like Zoey stole her identity. It’s more subtle than that.  

What do you do when every decision you made—what you wore, how you spoke, even how you walked—was gently, carefully shaped by someone else?

Her curls are gone now, routinely silk-pressed every two weeks. Her skirt itches in a way that used to mean sophistication but now just feels like a lie. Her posture, once tense and proud, is always a little slouched, like she’s halfway through unlearning something.

She used to think she liked these things. That they were her. But now she’s not sure if she liked them or just liked being what others approved of.

She tries to write it off as dramatic, but the thought comes anyway:  

Did I ever make a decision on my own?

People used to say Zoey was like the sun; bright, radiant, impossible to look away from. But that’s not right.

Zoey wasn’t the sun. She was the moon, cold and magnetic, casting light only when it suited her, pulling at the tides in ways they didn’t even notice until it was too late. Lia used to think she was the water: fluid, powerful, always pushing back.

But she wasn’t.  

She was a tiny fish, flickering through a vast ocean, too small to understand how deeply she’d been pulled.  

And now that the tide is gone, she’s just floating. Alone.

Wondering who she was before the moon.

Lia shows up.

She almost didn’t. She had a dozen excuses rehearsed, homework, chores, some vague “I’m tired.” But she’d said she would come. And for once, she wants to keep her word.

The auditorium is buzzing, loud with chatter and post-performance adrenaline. The music club won the competition, and it feels like everyone’s pretending that was always the expected outcome. Like they didn’t spend months calling them freaks behind their backs.  

She finds a spot in the back, pressed against the wall, where the lights don’t quite reach and no one notices she’s there.

She remembers—years ago now—when the club barely existed. Just Hailey, Zander, and Luke, trying to stay afloat. She’d be their audience, watch with rapt attention because Hailey asked her to. Because back then, on those quiet nights, when Hailey still let herself hope, she talked about music like it was the only thing in the world that made sense.

Hailey said she’d sing in the talent show with her tiny band.

Lia told her she’d be there.

She wasn’t.

And that was the day Hailey had run offstage, red-eyed and humiliated, her voice caught in her throat. Lia hadn’t even texted.

So now she’s here. Maybe too late. But she’s here.

Her mother stands beside her, surprisingly. She’d insisted on coming when Lia mentioned the competition. She leans over and says, “That blue-haired girl you used to hang out with? She was amazing.”  

Lia doesn’t argue.

She just nods and whispers, “Yeah.” Because it’s true. Hailey was radiant tonight. She stood center stage like she belonged there. Like she never doubted it. And the strangest part? Lia isn’t jealous. She just feels... proud. Bittersweet.

Her mom leaves after a few minutes, heading for the car, but Lia stays. She watches.

Hailey’s surrounded now; smiling wide, confident, answering questions from some local news station with ease. Jake is there too, still impossibly golden, flirting with a small group that gathered around him. He laughs easily, that big, glowing sound that used to belong to their group. Well, it wasn’t a group anymore.

It could make her jealous. It used to. But Jake doesn’t like her like that. Not anymore. He never did. Maybe they’re too alike—too much bite and not enough softness. Or maybe they just wanted different things and were too scared to say it.

Someone clears their throat beside her, and she turns.

It’s Mr Austin.

Hailey’s dad.

He looks the same as she remembers, soft, round glasses slipping down his nose, bright blue hair tucked into a knit cap. His smile is kind.

“I haven’t seen you in a long time,” he says, and there’s no accusation in his voice. Just a memory.

She smiles back. “Yeah. It’s been a while.”

She remembers the way he used to sneak her extra sweets during sleepovers. The way he always made a separate snack for her because he knew she didn’t like peanut butter. How he never asked questions when Hailey and Lia would retreat to her room in tense silence, only to burst into laughter ten minutes later.

He doesn’t say anything more. Just pats her shoulder gently and walks away.

Lia stays in the shadows. Long enough to watch Jake clap Sean on the back. Long enough to see Hailey throw her head back in laughter. Long enough to let herself believe—just for a second—that maybe this version of the world could’ve included her, if she’d shown up sooner.

But she didn’t.

She wasn’t there.

Still. She’s here now.

Hailey sees her. Of course she does.

Lia catches it the moment their eyes meet,across the crowd, past the congratulations and the flashing phone cameras and the glowing haze of victory. Hailey stiffens. It’s subtle, just a half-second of pause, like her whole body forgets how to breathe before it remembers again.

Lia looks away first.

She shouldn’t have come. Or maybe she should’ve left earlier. Or maybe—maybe she should’ve stayed that day Hailey cried in the bathroom after the talent show. Maybe everything would feel different if she had just stayed.

But she’s still here. So is Hailey.

And now Hailey’s walking toward her.

Every step echoes.

Lia tries not to flinch when she finally stops in front of her, arms crossed tightly like armor. Her makeup is smudged a little under her eyes, probably from performing, probably from joy. But there’s no real joy in her expression now, just that look Lia knows too well. The one she used to call we’re fighting but I’m still listening.

“…Hey,” Hailey says.

It shouldn’t catch Lia off guard, but it does.

“Hey,” she replies, too quiet.

The silence that follows is unbearable. Not because it’s empty, but because it’s full. Full of everything they’ve never said. Full of apologies that curdle in the throat. Full of love that never figured out how to be soft instead of sharp.

“You came,” Hailey says, and it isn’t warm. Just surprised.

“I said I would,” Lia says, like it means something. Like the last three years of damage could be patched over with a promise she didn’t break this time.

Another silence.

Hailey looks down. Her hand is still holding a microphone she hasn’t put down yet. Her grip on it is tight. Defensive.

“I didn’t think you would,” she admits.

Lia swallows. “I wanted to.”

Hailey huffs, a little. Not quite a laugh. “Yeah, well. Wanting doesn’t mean much when you’re not there.”

And god—it’s fair. It’s so fair it hurts.

Lia doesn’t have anything to say to that. What could she say? I’m sorry sounds too shallow. I miss you sounds too late.

“I liked your set,” Lia says instead.

Hailey finally meets her eyes again. Her expression softens. Just barely. “Thanks.”

More silence.

Hailey shifts her weight, glancing back at the stage. “I should probably go. We’re doing a group picture.”

Lia nods, fingers curling around the edge of her jacket. “Yeah. Of course.”

Hailey lingers, just long enough to make Lia wonder if she’s going to say something else. But she doesn’t.

She just says, “See you around,” like it’s nothing.

But Lia hears it for what it is.

Maybe not. Maybe yes. Maybe someday.

She watches Hailey disappear back into the crowd, swallowed by lights and people and purpose. And Lia just stands there, quiet and heavy with a goodbye that was never really said.

But at least this time—this time—she was there.

She doesn’t know why Hailey was so nice.

She says that to Jake, one quiet evening on his porch. The air smells like cut grass and rain that never came, and everything feels heavy, too many unspoken things packed into silence like overstuffed luggage.

Jake leans back against the steps, arms behind his head. “She’s just like that,” he says after a while. “Nice.”

“But she shouldn’t be,” Lia replies, voice low. “Not to me.”

Jake looks at her, but doesn’t push. He never does, not really. That’s part of why it hurts more.

Lia remembers the last time she was here. The porch looks the same. So does Jake. But everything else was different. She remembers the way her heart pounded when she told him, told him what she did. That she was the one who sent the recording. That Zoey had planned to use it to blackmail him, but she beat her to it. Told herself it was to stop Zoey, but deep down?

She wanted him to hurt.

If they kicked him out, maybe he’d talk to her again.

Maybe he’d stop choosing Hailey.

Maybe he'd come back.

But the club didn’t kick him out. And he didn’t come back. And the only thing that changed was the way his eyes stopped lighting up when they landed on her at all.

“I was jealous,” she admits now, picking at the hem of her sleeve. “Of Hailey. Of her… passion.”

Jake turns his head toward her. “You know, you could just say you thought she was cooler than you.”

Lia scoffs. “She’s not.”

She is.

He grins. “Sure.”

A beat passes. Then, gently: “What are you passionate about?”

The question makes her stomach twist. She wants to laugh, but it wouldn’t come out right.

“What is it with people and having one thing?” she says. “Why does everyone expect you to have this... north star? I don't like one thing.”

Jake hums. “I dunno. Makes it easier to feel like you’re going somewhere, I guess.”

Lia doesn’t answer right away. She thinks of Project Runway reruns. Of staying up late, sketching outfits in the margins of her homework. Of digging out her mom’s old sewing machine and slicing her finger open on a needle. Of crying because the thread kept tangling and nothing looked like it did in her head.

“I tried fashion,” she says eventually. “Once.”

Jake doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t even smile.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” she says. “It was a disaster.”

There’s a long pause. Then Jake nudges her foot with his own. “You ever think about trying again?”

Lia blinks. “Why would I?”

Jake shrugs. “Why not?”

She doesn’t have an answer for that either.

The cicadas start buzzing louder. Somewhere in the distance, someone lights fireworks too early for any holiday. Lia stares out at the street, and for once, doesn’t feel the need to run from the stillness.

She still doesn’t know why Hailey’s nice to her.

But Jake does invite her to a music club session.

Actually, he phrases it more like a dare, in that easy, boyish way he always had when he was trying to mask sincerity with a joke. “Come to one. Just one,” he says. “As the music club’s second biggest fan, you kind of have the honors.”

Lia raises an eyebrow, dry as sand. “Who’s the first?”

“Daisy. Obviously.”

She snorts, crossing her arms. “Of course.”

There’s a beat. A quiet one, warm and weightless, like an inhale held between them.

“Still haven’t confessed to her?” she asks.

Jake’s smile dips just slightly at the corners. “I don’t know,” he says. “I kind of put her on this pedestal. Like... she was this perfect, unreachable thing. And that wasn’t fair to her.”

Lia looks at him. There’s something new in his face, something settled. Not just about Daisy, but about the club, about himself. He doesn’t shine the way Zoey does, or even Hailey, but he glows now. Quiet and steady.

“She’s not unreachable,” Lia says, soft. “She’d probably like you back, you’re great.”

Jake glances at her, something thoughtful flickering in his expression. “Yeah,” he says. “Maybe.”

And maybe it’s stupid, but Lia thinks: she could go. Just once. Sit in the back. Pretend she doesn’t care, even though she knows every beat of every song from the hallway outside their practice room.

She could go, and maybe, just maybe, start to remember who she was before Zoey told her who to be.

The room is already loud when Lia steps inside.

It was the hum of something alive. A guitar being tuned, a speaker playing soft static between tracks. It smells like chips and old notebooks. She shouldn’t feel nervous, but her stomach feels funny anyway.

Jake spots her first. He grins like it’s easy, like this is normal, like she’s not stepping into a place she once tried to burn down by proximity alone. He waves her over like she belongs.

Hailey sees her next. Her face lights up like it always has. That easy, warm way she has of pulling people in without even trying. It still makes something inside Lia ache. Because Hailey is happy. Confident in a way Lia never let her be.

“You came,” Hailey says, voice soft but surprised.

Lia shrugs, feigning nonchalance. “Couldn’t let my title as second-biggest fan go to waste.”

Hailey laughs. “We saved you a seat.”

Zander stands a few feet behind her, arms crossed. His expression is unreadable, but not welcoming either. And that’s fair. She hadn't been kind to his sister. Not when it mattered.

Luke offers a polite smile, the kind that belongs to baristas and dog-walkers and people who believe in second chances. “Hey, Lia.”

“Hey,” she replies, surprised at how much she wants to earn that smile.

Sean gives a casual wave from behind the laptop. “Jake’s talked about you.”

She raises an eyebrow. “Good things?”

“Definitely.’”

She smiles even if it’s probably not true.

But then she sees Milly.

Milly doesn’t look at her, and somehow that hurts worse than anything else. She's hunched over a guitar, brows drawn, jaw tight. And Lia knows. She knows why.

So she walks over, arms folded, each step heavy with something like guilt.

“Hey,” she says.

Milly doesn’t glance up.

“I owe you an apology. A real one.”

Now Milly looks at her. Her eyes are piercing and tired and wary.

“I should’ve said something a long time ago,” Lia says. “I let Zoey be awful. I helped. The diary thing… I wasn’t just watching. I was part of it.”

Milly studies her like she’s a test she’s already failed. Then she leans back, exhaling slow.

“You think?”

Lia nods. “I do.”

There’s a pause. A long, quiet stretch of something unsaid. Then:

“That’s a start,” Milly says.

It’s not forgiveness. Not yet. But it’s something.

Jake is patting the seat next to him like a golden retriever. She rolls her eyes and walks over. Sits down.

This is what trying looks like, maybe. Sitting in the space you scorched and hoping something can still grow.

And as the music starts, she lets herself listen.

The music winds down slowly—like the last exhale of something bigger than all of them. The room starts to shift, the energy dipping as people pack up cables, close instrument cases, toss empty snack bags into the bin. But Lia stays in her seat, hands folded in her lap.

She’s not ready to leave yet. She doesn’t know if she can leave.

Hailey walks over quietly, slipping into the chair beside her like it’s muscle memory.

“You stayed for the whole thing,” she says, nudging Lia’s knee gently with her own.

Lia doesn’t meet her eyes. “You were good. All of you.”

“Thanks.”

A pause stretches between them. Not awkward, but not easy either. The kind of pause that sits heavy with all the things they never said.

“I didn’t come to your talent show,” Lia says suddenly, her voice barely above a whisper. “I said I would. I remember you texted me that night. I didn’t even open it.”

Hailey blinks. Then looks away. “I know.”

“I wanted to. I just—” Lia stops. She doesn’t know how to explain middle school insecurity and high school cruelty and all the ways she let other people tell her who she was. “I was scared.”

Hailey doesn’t say anything for a while. Just stares at the scuff marks on the floor like they might give her an answer.

Then, finally, she turns back. Her smile is tired, but real.

“I waited for you, you know,” she says. “Onstage. I kept thinking, maybe you were running late. Maybe you’d show up during the second verse, I didn’t even get passed the first letter.”

Lia presses her lips together, hard. “I’m sorry.”

Hailey nods. “You hurt me.”

“I know.”

“But you’re here now,” Hailey says gently. “And I think you want to be.”

“I do,” Lia says. “I think I do.”

It’s not a resolution. Not forgiveness wrapped in a bow. But it’s something real, something fragile and growing in the light between them.

Hailey bumps her shoulder against hers.

“You were always better than Zoey wanted you to act like.”

Lia lets out a breath she didn’t know she was holding. “I’m trying to believe that.”

And for the first time in a long time, she kind of does.

(Lia is twelve the day it happens, picture day, the kind she should’ve been excited for.

She remembers her mom waking her up early, humming as she pressed Lia’s curls into two perfect pigtails. The scent of coconut oil, the soft tug of the brush, the kind of careful love you don’t notice until years later. Her mom had smiled at her in the mirror. Said, “You look like the star of your own movie.” And Lia had believed her.

Jacob—same grade, same pointed glare, same boy who only tried her when Zoey wasn’t around—sticks a wad of gum in her hair before the first bell even rings.

She doesn’t cry. Not until she’s home and her mom is trying to get it out with conditioner and too much silence. She remembers the ache in her throat more than the pain. The humiliation, the helplessness. She had felt so small.

She also remembers Jake Sterling.  

Friend of Drew. Mouthy. Kinda cool. Kind of annoying.  

He punched Jacob in the face so hard his nose bled, and got a week’s detention for it.

Jake hadn’t looked at her afterward. Didn’t say anything. But he sat in front of her in homeroom that day and for the first time, her heart stuttered.

Jacob left her alone after that.

And ever since—every year, every bag, every locker—she’s carried a tiny bottle of hair oil. Just in case. Just so gum wouldn't stick.

Because people forget. But she doesn’t.)

Lia walks home with her hands in her pockets, headphones in but not playing anything. The late spring air is thick and golden, the kind of warmth that makes everything feel just a little more possible. Her chest buzzes—not with nerves, not with dread. Just… something. Like she might finally be on the edge of becoming someone she recognizes.

The house is quiet when she steps inside. Her mother’s working late. The hallway smells like lavender from the plug-in air freshener she always forgets is there.

She walks past the living room, past the old bookshelf she and Zoey used to steal magazines from, and makes her way to the garage—more storage room than anything else these days.

There, buried under a faded box labeled Christmas Lights and a pile of old school projects, is the crate. The one she kept swearing she’d clean out. Inside: dried-up fabric glue, spools of thread tangled into knots, and—

The dress.

Half-sewn, seams jagged, bodice uneven. It’s the wrong shade of plum, and the hem is crooked. But it’s hers.

She remembers staying up until two in the morning trying to figure out the zipper. The needle pricking her thumb. Crying on the linoleum floor after giving up. Zoey told her it looked “too homemade” and that was the end of that.

Lia picks it up slowly, the fabric falling like a memory across her arms.

Maybe it’s not perfect. Maybe she still doesn’t know what she’s passionate about. But something inside her stirs—a want, small and bright and real.

She brings the dress upstairs and lays it across her bed.

And this time, she doesn’t cry.

She just sits, fingers tracing the edge of a seam, brimming with the quiet thought:

What if I finish it?

Not for Zoey. Not for anyone else.

Just for her.

It’s a rhythm now—  

A broken tune, jagged and familiar.

School is… okay, if she had to say.  

Lia hates being alone.  

That’s the thing, the awful thing, the rot beneath the surface: she hates being alone.  

It’s the one thing that made her sabotage every semi-good, almost-beautiful thing that ever tried to stick around.

She and Zoey never talk.  

Zoey doesn’t even look at her.  

And sometimes, Lia wants to scream—look at me.  

She wants to tear the silence apart, wants to grab her by the wrist and demand answers, demand apologies she doesn’t know if she deserves.  

But she doesn’t.  

She won’t.  

Because she knows how that ends.

Drew is meaner now.  

Not in the overt way, not the dramatic flair of hallway confrontations.  

But hardened. Funnier, too, in the way people can be when they’re angry all the time but trying not to show it.  

He masks it in mockery, in too-cool eyes and bitter smirks.  

She wonders if he’s still bleeding under it all, or if this is just who he is now.

Henry, Liam, and Drew are like a seesaw—one that’s creaking under the weight, on the verge of snapping.  

Like a stray bulldozer is about to ram through and send them all flying.  

She watches them sometimes, the way they orbit each other.  

Drew, guarded. Liam, joking too loud. Henry, trying so hard to be the glue but slipping anyway.

She doesn’t know if she wants to fix it.  

Or just let it fall.  

It’s chemistry. Third period. Cold room, colder vibes. The kind of fluorescent buzz overhead that makes everything feel too weird.

Lia doesn’t react when the teacher pairs her with Drew. Just grabs her notes, slides into the seat next to him like she’s not used to walking on glass.

Drew’s already at the station, goggles pushed up, shoulders stiff. He’s focused on lining up beakers, measuring out solutions like they offended him. He doesn’t look at her. Not even a glance.

Lia watches the way he moves—precise, detached. She doesn’t know if he’s mad or just trying not to be.

They fall into a rhythm. A quiet one. She asks for the magnesium, he hands it over without a word. She notes the temperature, he sets the timer.

It’s fine. Functional. Cold.

And then he says, offhand, not looking at her, “You hanging out with the music freak—”

“Club,” Lia cuts in, sharper than she means to. Her voice slices through the quiet like glass shattering.

Drew pauses. Just for a second. Then goes back to lighting the strip, gaze fixed on the flame like it might answer something for him.

Silence stretches long after the flare burns out. The white light fades. Ash cools between them.

She doesn’t speak again. She knows Drew hates them—especially Hailey. Especially now.

Maybe it’s because Jake sits with them now, laughs a little too freely in their circle. Maybe it’s because Hailey doesn’t look afraid of Drew anymore. Or maybe it’s because they won. And people liked them for it.

She doesn’t know. But she can feel it in his jawline, set hard. In the way he won’t look at her, like if he does, something will crack.

Maybe it already has.

She almost says something. Almost tells him the music club isn’t what he thinks. That Hailey isn’t what he thinks.

But Drew’s already scribbling answers on the worksheet like he’s trying to outrun the conversation.

He finishes scribbling on the worksheet and passes it to her without looking. “They’re not gonna let you in just ’cause you show up, you know.”

Lia blinks. “What?”

Drew still won’t meet her eyes. “The music club. Your little redemption tour or whatever. Doesn’t matter how many pity parties you throw for Hailey. She’s not gonna forgive you.”

The words hit harder than she expects, a quiet little slice right beneath the ribs.

She doesn’t respond immediately. Just stares at him.

Really looks at him.

And when she speaks, her voice is quieter than he deserves. Steady. Cutting.

“You’re being an ass.”

That gets him. He flinches just slightly, the goggles on his forehead slipping down a fraction.

Lia keeps her eyes on him. Doesn’t raise her voice. Doesn’t need to.

“I know what I did. I know who I was. You don’t get to act like you’re some moral compass when all you do is look down on people for trying.”

Drew’s jaw tightens. His pen stills.

They finish the lab in silence. But this time, it’s not cold.

It’s heavy. Tense.

Real.

Despite Drew’s words, there’s a sliver of truth buried in them—small and sour like an unripe fruit. 

Lia knows the music club doesn’t trust her. Not fully. Not really. With Luke, Elliot, Sean—there’s warmth. Hesitant, cautious warmth, but warmth nonetheless. Hailey is a strange, delicate thing she doesn't quite know how to define anymore, and Jake… well, Jake has always been confusing.

But Milly and Zander? 

The ground there isn’t just shaky—it’s crumbling. A slow, inevitable erosion under her feet, like standing on sand just before the tide pulls it all away.

Zander doesn’t speak to her directly unless necessary. When he does, his tone is clipped, polite in that aggressive way that says, I haven’t forgotten anything you did. She doesn't blame him. Not when she remembers the way she talked about his sister. The things she said to Hailey when Zoey was watching, when the approval felt like sunlight and she was too desperate to stay in the warmth.

Milly is worse. Not cruel, no, Milly isn’t Zoey but it’s clear every interaction is a test. A watchful eye over every word Lia says, every move she makes. And Lia knows why. Freshman year wasn’t kind to Milly. And Lia hadn’t just stood by. She’d laughed. She'd helped. She’d stolen Milly’s diary and read pieces aloud in the locker room just to see Zoey smirk. 

She hasn’t apologized in the way that counts. 

So when Drew says what he says, it’s not that it’s true. Not entirely. 

But it reminds her of something she already knows—  

Trying doesn’t mean you're forgiven.  

Showing up doesn’t mean you’re wanted.

Jake thinks it’s a good idea.  

“We should go shopping,” he says casually, like it’s nothing.  

“You did ask once,” He continues, raising a brow.  

But they both know what he meant when he said it. The kind of ask that hovers somewhere between a joke and a dare. Maybe a date. Maybe not. Something softer than what they’ve ever let themselves admit to.  

This, though? This isn't that.  

This is Jake sending her a time and place and then… not showing up.  

She waits ten minutes before texting him.  

Then ten more before realizing he isn’t coming.

Instead, she finds Milly, confused, and Zander, visibly annoyed, standing near the fountain like they’d been lured into a trap.

“Okay,” she mutters under her breath, blinking. “What the actual—”

“You too?” Milly asks, squinting like she’s trying to solve a case.

Lia’s already turning to leave—her pride barely holding itself upright—when Zander exhales through his nose and rolls his eyes.

“Well,” he says, deadpan, “it’d be a waste not to go together.”

And just like that, she’s stuck at the mall with two of the people she’s pretty sure would rather be anywhere else.

Cool.  

Great.  

Awesome.

They end up at the sunglasses section because, apparently, Milly broke Zander’s last pair while “accidentally” kicking his face during practice.

Zander swears she did it on purpose. Milly swears she didn’t. Lia’s inclined to believe none of them.

Currently, Milly’s holding up two options—one pair sleek and minimal, the other obnoxiously oversized and heart-shaped. Zander is posing with each like he’s auditioning for a magazine shoot no one asked for.

“This one makes me look like a CEO with a hit list,” he says, turning slightly in profile with the sleek pair.

“You already look like that,” Lia says, arms crossed.

He ignores her and slips on the heart-shaped pair instead. “And this one?”

Milly shrugs from where she’s leaning on the rack. “Like you peaked in third grade.”

He narrows his eyes behind the lenses. “You don’t know fashion.”

“You’re wearing a turtleneck in April.”

“It's transitional.”

Lia’s lips twitch despite herself, and Milly groans, flopping dramatically onto a nearby bench.

“This is taking forever. Can’t you just pick the evil CEO ones and be done with it?”

Zander turns to Lia instead, suddenly serious. “Well?”

“What?”

“You’re the tie-breaker,” he says like it's a solemn burden. “Which pair screams ‘don’t talk to me unless you’re contractually obligated’?”

Lia snorts. “Neither. You look like a tragic theater kid in both.”

He raises an eyebrow, clearly not offended. “So heart-shaped it is.”

Milly groans louder. “We’re never getting out of here.”

And for a moment—for a blink—Lia feels something not quite peace, but not war either. Like standing on cracked ice that, just maybe, might hold a little longer.

They don’t buy the sunglasses.

Zander puts them down after the dramatics, muttering something about not supporting mall fashion monopolies and how he’ll order a better pair online. Milly rolls her eyes and mutters cheapskate, but Lia catches the amused glint in her expression as she walks off toward the food court like it’s not a big deal.

Zander walks beside Lia, a respectable half-step behind. Not close, but not far either.

“You’re quieter when you’re not at school,” he says, like he’s been holding it in the whole time.

She glances at him, caught off guard. “And you talk more when you’re not trying to get under people’s skin.”

He shrugs, faint smile tugging at the edge of his mouth. “I’m not trying with you.”

“Charming,” she deadpans.

They walk in silence for a few beats. Ahead, Milly has already snagged a pretzel and is holding it like a victory banner. Zander slows just slightly, like he’s giving Lia the space to turn around, to leave if she wants to.

She doesn’t.

Instead, she blurts, “You know I wasn’t—” She cuts herself off, biting the inside of her cheek. “With Hailey. Before.”

He doesn’t look at her right away. “I know.”

“And the diary thing—”

“I know,” he says again, and this time it’s clipped, but not angry. “Milly told me. She said you weren’t the worst. Just... silent.”

Lia feels something cold sink behind her ribs. She doesn’t defend herself. Can’t.

“But,” Zander continues, tone softer now, “You’re here. You didn’t have to be.”

She exhales. A little shaky. “Jake tricked me.”

Zander gives a huff of laughter. “Us too.”

They reach Milly, who breaks her pretzel in three and hands them each a piece without a word. Lia takes it. They sit on the edge of the fountain, not friends, maybe not even acquaintances, but something.

It’s not trust. Not yet. But it’s no longer the opposite.

Lia chews thoughtfully on the corner of her pretzel, watching the little flecks of cinnamon fall onto her jeans. Then, like she’s just realizing it, she mutters, “You know, I’m kinda surprised you forgave Jake when he first joined.”

Zander snorts before she can even finish the sentence.

“I didn’t,” he says, a little too gleefully. “God, I was furious when Hailey forgave him. I think I didn’t speak to her for like… two and a half hours. Which is basically a decade in sibling time.”

Lia raises an eyebrow. “So you just... accepted it?”

“Oh no,” Zander grins. “I cursed him.”

Lia chokes on a laugh. “You what?”

“I cursed him,” he repeats casually, like it's a completely rational post-betrayal reaction. “Well, Sadie helped. I asked very nicely.”

Lia looks at him, torn between amusement and absolute concern. “You hexed Jake?”

Zander shrugs, pretending to examine his cuticle. “Just a little one. Harmless. Mostly. But he came to school the next day looking like he hadn’t slept a wink and flinched every time I walked past him in the hallway. Said something about ‘scratching’ under his bed all night.”

“Oh my God,” Lia says, in disbelief, she’s grateful for Jake for this shopping trip now. She feels as though Zander has no qualms cursing her too. “You’re terrifying.”

“Thank you,” Zander replies sweetly, popping the last bit of his pretzel in his mouth.

Milly returns right then with a smoothie the size of her head and throws herself onto the bench beside them. “What did I miss?”

Lia and Zander glance at each other, then both say at the same time:  

“Nothing.”  

“Witchcraft.”  

Milly narrows her eyes but doesn’t push it. For the first time in a long time, Lia lets the laugh bubble up without choking it down.

(Lia remembers shopping trips with Zoey like a dream sequence she wasn’t quite awake for. There was always noise, Zoey talking a mile a minute, changing in and out of outfits with the dramatic flair of a stage actress mid-performance. Drew would be somewhere in the background, trying to look disinterested, arms crossed, phone out, wallet reluctantly ready.

“Drew,” Zoey would snap, stepping out of the fitting room in a red dress that clung to her too well for a school dance. “Are you even looking?”

“I’m here, aren’t I?” he’d mutter, barely glancing up.

Lia would be the one to step in. “It fits nice,” she’d say. Then, quickly—because she knew Zoey’s frown—“But maybe the green one brings out your eyes more.”

It was a dance, and Lia had learned the steps early.

They’d leave with bags swinging and Zoey chattering about how good she looked, how people were going to die at school, and Drew walking behind clearly bored, sunglasses still on even when the sun was setting.

But that wasn’t what stuck.

What stuck was the week before Zoey’s birthday, sophomore year. She remembers it because Zoey texted her at 1 a.m. with a series of crying emojis and a photo of a handmade bracelet Drew had gifted her early.

He made it, Zoey had typed. With string. STRING, Lia.

Lia stared at her phone, then groaned, already swinging her legs out of bed. She showed up the next morning with a coffee and a plan.

“You know he’s not gonna return it,” Zoey pouted, curled up on her bed. “He thinks it’s meaningful. That’s, like, the worst kind of present.”

Lia sighed. “Then we’ll make sure you get something else. Something new. Something with a tag.”

By the time Drew had shown up later that afternoon—half-heartedly asking if Zoey liked the bracelet—Lia had already dragged him to the mall under the pretense of “helping.” Which really meant managing.

“Not earrings,” she said, shaking her head as Drew held up a pair of gold hoops. “She hates gold.”

“She wore gold last week.”

“She was matching you,” Lia said, snatching them out of his hand. “And no bracelets. Obviously.”

Drew groaned. “What does she even want then?”

Lia turned to him, deadpan. “Something expensive, not handmade, preferably limited edition, and that looks good in Instagram stories. Keep up.”

He scowled. “You’re awfully bossy for someone not in this relationship.”

“And yet I’m the reason you’re still in it,” she said sweetly, before pushing him toward the perfume counter.

It wasn’t just birthdays either. Anniversaries. Holidays. The occasional “I’m sorry I said something out of pocket” emergency run. Lia was always the one called to make sure whatever Drew got didn’t scream sentimental loser and instead whispered rich boyfriend with taste.

And when Zoey opened it—whatever it was—and squealed and wrapped her arms around Drew and posed for selfies, Lia would smile and step back. She always did.

But she remembers those moments in the stores, standing next to Drew while he grumbled about capitalism and price tags and how Zoey would like it anyway.

“She’ll like this, right?” he asked once, holding up a necklace with a tiny crescent moon charm.

Lia tilted her head. “It’s delicate. Pretty. Thoughtful.”

“So that’s a no.”

She exhaled. “She’ll return it.”

He nodded, then tossed it back in the tray. “Pearls it is.”

Lia never knew if he was joking. She still doesn’t.

But it’s weird now, remembering that. Because they don’t talk. Not really. And Zoey barely looks at her anymore. And Drew is still Drew, but meaner. Mean in the way that makes her think he’s just tired. Mean in the way she used to decode for Zoey like a second language.

Back then, she was the translator. Now, she’s just another person he doesn’t talk to.)

It’s Friday, and Lia’s sitting in the back of class, staring at the ends of her hair where the heat damage is worst. It’s long — waist-length, dark, still straightened — but she’s been thinking about going natural for months now. She’d probably have to cut most of it off. The thought makes her stomach twist. It’s not just hair. It’s armor.

She taps her pen against her paper, lost in her head, when—

“Pssst. Lia.”

She looks up, already irritated. Henry’s grinning at her like they’re best friends. Like he didn’t just yank her out of her mental spiral for something dumb.

“What.”

He holds up his worksheet and points to a question. “What’s the answer to this one?”

“You already copied Liam’s,” she says.

Henry leans back, feigning innocence. “Yeah, but he probably got it wrong on purpose again.”

Liam, who’s lounging next to him with his hood up and eyes half-lidded, doesn’t even blink. “Sour Plum doesn’t appreciate art.”

And there it is. Sour Plum. The nickname Liam gave her in freshman year, because of the way her face would sour whenever Henry tried to flirt with her. That, and her love of all things purple. It stuck.

“Stop calling me that,” she mutters.

“Thought we were friends,” Henry says, mock-wounded, still smiling.

And technically… they are. Friends. In that loose, group-way. They talk, joke, sometimes even work together. But she never hangs out with them alone. 

They’re safe, in numbers. It’s not closeness. 

“You never really hang out with us,” Henry adds, more curious than accusatory.

“I wonder why,” she deadpans.

Liam snorts. Henry shrugs like he’s used to it by now.

And she wants to be mad at them, for choosing Drew when everything split. For staying quite when Jake got humiliated. For standing around when Drew made Hailey’s life hell. But she knows better.

She chose Zoey over Hailey, didn’t she?

She remembers one of those after-school days, the ones where Zoey insisted they all crash at Drew’s house under the excuse of “group project.” Mostly it was Zoey draped across Drew’s couch while Lia scrolled on her phone, Henry half-asleep, and Liam throwing popcorn at the ceiling. Once, Zoey got mad that Drew wouldn’t pause his game to look at her. She stormed out, and it was Lia who followed. Who listened. Who told her she was right even when she wasn’t.

That’s the kind of friend she was. Loyal, even when it meant lying.

Sometimes people pick what hurts them because it feels familiar. That’s what she tells herself when she looks at Henry and Liam and can’t decide how she feels about them.

“You’re staring,” Henry says again.

“I’m judging,” she corrects.

Liam snickers. “Fair.”

“Just wondering how two people can talk so much and say so little.”

Henry blinks. “Damn.”

Lia smiles, tight-lipped, and turns back to her paper. They sit in that brittle quiet — not angry, not comfortable — just three people in the same room, pretending shared history is the same as closeness.

(She remembers being a freshman and the first time Henry blatantly flirted with her. She’d honestly thought it was a joke.

He’d bowed — actually bowed — with one hand pressed to his chest and the other extended like they were in a ballroom instead of a high school hallway that smelled faintly of overcooked tater tots. With all the dramatic flair of someone raised by Shakespeare and anime, he’d said, “A vision in violet, may I have the honor of knowing your name?”

She had blinked. Then blinked again. Then snorted so loud it startled a sophomore behind her.

At the time, she thought it was a dare or something stupid he was doing for Liam’s amusement. But then he’d kept doing it. Showing up when she was reading with exaggerated praise for her “wisdom,” making ridiculous “your beauty distracted me from the question” comments in class, even offering her half of his lunch when hers was missing one day.

It was… annoying. But it was also weirdly persistent. Earnest, even.

And for a split second, a very tiny part of her — the part that was lonely and unsure and tired of watching Zoey shine — had wondered if he actually meant it.

But it never went anywhere. Maybe because she never let it. Maybe because it was easier to pretend he was just messing around. Maybe because even back then, Henry was already following Drew’s lead, and she was already following Zoey’s. They were just different branches of the same broken tree.

They were never friends, not really. She wasn’t sure what they were. Still isn’t. But it’s easier now, being older, to look back and understand:

It wasn’t a joke. Not exactly.

Just a boy trying to find his place.

And a girl pretending she already had.)

It’s been three weeks since Lia left Zoey.

And Zoey, in the classic, polished, razor-sharp way she did everything, decided that meant she would pretend Lia didn’t exist. No screaming matches. No hallway confrontations. Just long silences. Or half-laughed whispers into Maria’s ear. “So brave to wear that,” or “Didn’t she used to straighten her hair?” in that way that wasn’t direct enough to count as bullying but sharp enough to bleed.

It had been two weeks of silence before Zoey approached her again.

Maybe it was because Lia looked happier. Not the kind of happy you write songs about but lighter. Like she wasn’t constantly waiting to be critiqued. Like she could wear ugly sneakers if she wanted. Like she could laugh without checking Zoey’s expression first.

Zoey had always looked taller than she really was. It was the heels, sure but more than that, it was how she carried herself. Like the world had already voted her in and everyone else was just running to keep up. When she stopped in front of Lia’s locker, it felt like a shadow had been cast over her, like gravity itself shifted to make room for her arrival.

“You look different,” Zoey said, voice calm, but with that undertone — the one that asked if you were really ready to spar.

Lia didn’t flinch. She kept putting her books away.

“Is that a good different or a pathetic one?” Lia said casually, like she didn’t already know the answer.

Zoey smiled, that tight little smirk that made people forget she was mean. “You always were good at playing second fiddle. Guess you’re trying solo now.”

Lia turned, finally facing her. “And you always hated when the spotlight shifted.”

For a second, Zoey looked amused. Then bored. “Don’t get too comfortable. People like you get tired real fast.”

And just like that, she was walking away, her perfume trailing behind her like she had her own special effect team. Taller than she really was. Shinier than she had any right to be.

Lia exhaled. Closed her locker.

It didn’t even hurt that much.

Not anymore.

That night, she cuts half her hair off.

She stands in front of the mirror, scissors in hand, tension pooling in her shoulders. The ends are stiff, brittle from years of heat and silk presses, of trying to be presentable, of trying to be Zoey's friend. Of looking the part but never feeling it.  

The first snip is uneven. The second is cleaner. By the time she’s done, it’s not perfect, but it’s hers.

Her hair curls up immediately, now that it isn’t being dragged down by length. It’s soft, springy. It brushes just past her shoulders, short enough to feel the air on her neck, short enough to see her full face again. There’s a lightness she didn’t know she missed.

She studies her reflection. Her fingers move through curls that don’t hide behind the flat iron’s hiss.  

No Zoey in her head telling her what would look better. No imaginary voice ranking her in a room of prettier girls.  

It’s not perfect. But it’s free.

And for the first time in a while, Lia thinks she looks like herself.

Her bathroom is quiet, dimly lit. Her phone buzzes once—some group chat she never checks anymore—and she lets it go unanswered. She touches her hair again, fascinated by the spring and bounce, how much of her real texture is coming back now that she’s stopped fighting it.

It’s strange. She feels like she should feel more.

But instead, there's just this quiet sense of… beginning.  

She gathers the cut hair into a plastic bag and tucks it away in the trash under old notebooks and paper towels. She doesn’t want to look at it. Not in a sentimental way. Just—some things don’t need to be lingered on.  

Later, lying in bed with the lamp casting soft yellow over her walls, she opens her front camera and stares. Takes a few pictures. Deletes them. Takes a few more. Smiles in one of them without meaning to.  

For a brief moment, she thinks of sending one to Hailey. To Jake. Maybe even Zoey. But she doesn’t. Instead, she sends it to no one, and locks her phone.  

The curls frame her face differently. They make her look younger and older at once—like the version of her who used to daydream about the future, who used to play with fabric scraps and glue ribbon to notebooks.  

Like a girl who might still be finding her way back.  

The next morning, she wakes up with a pillow full of curls and her mother’s soft gasp when she walks into the kitchen. Her mother doesn’t ask questions, only hands her a plate of pancakes and smooths a stray coil behind her ear.

“You look like yourself,” she says, and Lia blinks.

“Yeah,” Lia answers. “I think I do.”

In the morning, she stands in front of the mirror, comb in one hand, gel in the other. The bathroom counter’s a mess—scrunchies, bobby pins, and one edge brush that’s seen better days.  

Her old bangs, once long and flat and perfectly aligned to Zoey’s preferences, now curl around her forehead in soft little spirals that refuse to be tamed. She stares at them, unsure whether she loves or hates them. But they’re hers. That’s enough.

With practiced fingers, she scoops gel and smooths the sides down, brushing them back with slow, steady strokes. She pins what she can and ties the rest into a puffed ponytail that bounces at the back of her head. It’s not sleek, but it’s neat—defined. A little wild. A little her.

She steps back.  

It’s not the version of her that Zoey curated. It’s not even the version of her she thought she'd land on after everything. It’s something in between. Something growing.  

She tilts her head and smiles at the girl in the mirror, who stares back with round eyes and an almost smirk.  

Not perfect. But real.

“Okay,” she murmurs. “We can work with this.”  

And she walks out the door.

Daisy beams when she sees her, practically bouncing in her shoes.  

“Lia! Oh my gosh—your hair looks so good!” she gushes, reaching out but pausing just short of actually touching it, like she knows better.  

It takes Lia a second to respond. Her gut twists, reflexively, at first. The old instincts flicker: jealousy, resentment, guilt. The familiar urge to search for a flaw, to sharpen herself against Daisy’s softness. But it dulls, quicker than before.  

Because when she really looks at Daisy now—really sees her—she doesn’t see some untouchable, perfect enemy anymore. She sees someone who cracked under the weight she was forced to carry. Someone who looked less polished and more free since losing the head girl title, even if everyone else whispered like it was a tragedy.  

Lia shifts her books awkwardly in her arms.  

“Thanks,” she says, voice scratchy but honest.  

Daisy’s smile only grows. “Seriously, you look amazing. It suits you so much!” She bounces a little again. “Are you coming to the music showcase next week? Jake said you might be.”  

There’s a moment where Lia almost flinches. The past, heavy and uncomfortable, lingering in the name alone. Jake had liked Daisy. Maybe still did. And once, Lia would’ve hated Daisy for that. Hated her for being good and likable and everything Lia thought she wasn’t.

But she’s tired of hating people for being what she couldn’t be.  

So she just shrugs, casual. “Yeah. Maybe.”  

Daisy grins wide enough that her nose scrunches a little. It’s stupidly genuine. “Cool! Hope you do.” And then she’s off, waving as she jogs back to wherever she was originally headed, the hallway lights catching in her white hair like a halo.  

Lia watches her go, feeling... like something cracked open in her chest, letting the air in.  

She hugs her books tighter to herself and keeps walking.

Lia rounds the corner too fast and thud—she collides into someone.  

Maria.  

Of course.  

Maria stumbles back a step, her usual heavy-lidded stare flickering in mild annoyance before she recognizes Lia. For a second, neither of them says anything. The air between them is thick with something—not anger exactly, but the ghost of old conversations, old dynamics, like dust on forgotten shelves.  

Maria, who had basically taken up Lia’s old post: Zoey’s confidant, her sounding board, her occasional punching bag.  

Maria, who always looked a little too tired for how young she was, wearing exhaustion and sarcasm like armor.  

Lia straightens awkwardly, brushing her shoulder off like it might erase the moment.  

"Sorry," she mutters.  

Maria snorts, pushing her hair out of her face. "You always walk like you own the hallway."  

There’s no real bite to it—more observation than insult—and somehow that stings worse. Lia looks at her closer, sees how Maria’s black eyes flicker toward the end of the hall, like she’s expecting Zoey to come storming around the corner at any second.   

It’s funny, in a twisted way.  

Maria was the new Lia, whether she wanted the job or not: the permanent passenger to Zoey’s wreckage, the holder of secrets too ugly to admit aloud.  

"You still carrying all her crap?" Lia asks before she can stop herself, voice low.  

Maria raises an eyebrow, almost amused. "What, you want it back?"  

For half a second, it almost feels normal between them, the biting comments, the shared tiredness. Then Maria shrugs, casual like it’s not worth digging into.  

"It’s fine," Maria says. "She doesn’t listen to me either. But she needs someone to listen to her, so... whatever."  

Lia swallows. She gets it. God, she gets it. How easy it was to stay, even when you hated it. How you could mistake being needed for being loved.  

Maria looks at her again, a little sharper this time. "You’re different now," she says, like she’s noticing it for the first time. "Kinda weird."  

Lia cracks a dry smile. "Takes one to know one."  

Maria snorts, genuine this time, and steps around her, hands stuffed in her pockets. She doesn’t say goodbye. She doesn’t have to.  

Lia watches her go, the hall feeling a little emptier after.  

And even though it shouldn’t make her feel anything, it does.  

Maybe because in some twisted way, she left a part of herself behind when she left Zoey too.  

Maybe because Maria was what she could’ve become if she hadn’t walked away.  

Maybe because she’s still scared some part of her still is.  

She breathes in through her nose, shoulders squaring, and keeps moving.

Practice feels different this time.  

Warmer, lighter. Like sitting in a sunbeam instead of under a flickering ceiling light.  

Zander, after some long, brooding internal debate that was practically visible on his face, scoots over on the piano bench and, without ceremony, pats the keys. "Go ahead," he mutters, like it physically pains him.  

Milly, lounging upside down on the couch, grins. "Highest order of trust, that." She stage-whispers it like it’s sacred knowledge. "Man barely lets me touch the thing."  

Lia laughs under her breath, awkwardly tapping out a few notes. She’s not great—clumsy, halting—but Zander doesn’t criticize. He just leans his chin on his hand and hums quietly to the melody she cobbles together.  

Luke bounces over next, too excited to stay still. "C'mere," he says, waving her over to the other side of the room. "You gotta meet Justin."  

At first Lia thinks he’s talking about a person, but no—he means the drum kit. The lovingly battered set, stickers peeling off the bass drum, the cymbals shining like dull coins.  

She laughs, a real one, and Luke smiles proudly like he’s introduced her to an old friend.  

"I don’t know anything about drums," she warns.  

"You’re overqualified," Luke says cheerfully, handing her a drumstick.  

And just like that, for a moment, it feels easy.  

It feels like maybe she’s not intruding.  

Then Hailey walks over, tapping her shoulder slightly.  

"Your hair looks so good," she says, smiling that small, sincere smile that always floors Lia more than the big ones. "It really suits you."  

Lia’s face burns immediately, heat rushing to her cheeks like a flash fire. She chokes out some awkward, barely coherent "Thanks" and tugs at the end of her curls like it might ground her somehow.  

Across the room, Jake catches the whole thing.  

He’s leaning against the wall, arms crossed, watching with a smirk that's so knowing it could make her spontaneously combust.  

He raises his eyebrows at her, mouthing a slow, exaggerated "Ohhh?" like a brat.  

Lia scowls at him and throws a drumstick in his general direction, missing by a mile.  

Jake just laughs, low and easy, ducking out of the way.  

The room buzzes with a low, steady warmth, and for the first time in a long while, Lia thinks:  

Maybe she could belong here too.  

Maybe she already does. 

(She had been in love with Hailey Austin long before she ever had the words for it.  

Back when they became best friends — two messy kids trying to figure out who they were — Lia thought it was just admiration. That soft, breathless way Hailey moved through the world: energetic, passionate, smart in a way that wasn’t just academics but everywhere, in everything. She could pick up an instrument and master it like it was second nature. She could light up a room without even trying.  

And Lia — Lia had looked at her like she hung the sun itself.  

Like Hailey had caught it in her hands and dragged it down to earth just to share it with her.  

They used to play pretend all the time. Imagining a future so big, so dazzling it barely fit inside their heads.  

Hailey would be the world’s most famous pop star, Lia the most sought-after fashion designer.  

In every version of the game, no matter how many times they remixed the details — the one thing that stayed constant was this:  

They were always together.  

Always.  

Sometimes Lia wonders if some part of her knew even then.  

Knew that it wasn’t just admiration.  

Knew that it wasn’t just friendship.  

It was something else — something bigger, something quieter, something terrifying in its intensity.  

But she had been too young to name it, and later too scared to face it.  

And by the time she could almost admit it to herself, it already felt too late.)

Drew shows up at her door, just standing there like he’s not sure if he should knock or bolt. His eyes meet hers for half a second before he looks away, hands jammed deep into his pockets. He looks... smaller, somehow. Like if she shut the door, he wouldn’t even argue.

"Nice hair," he mutters, voice flat, like he's saying it just to fill the silence.

Lia runs a hand through her curls, suddenly too aware of them. They still feel like someone else's hair some days — another version of herself she’s not sure she’s earned yet. "Thanks," she says, quieter than she means to. She hates how unsure it sounds.

The silence stretches between them, thick and awkward. Heavy with all the things they haven’t said. Lia crosses her arms, feeling the weight of it settle on her chest. 

Finally, Drew clears his throat.

"Was I... that much of an ass?" he asks, eyes still anywhere but her face.

Lia leans against the doorframe, studying him. It would be so easy to just say yes and slam the door in his face. It would be easier still to say nothing at all. But easy never fixed anything.

She looks at him, really looks at him. The way his shoulders curve inward like he’s bracing for a punch. The way he keeps shifting, like he’s too big for his own skin.

“Do you want the long version or the short version?” she says, dry, masking the ache under her ribs.

Drew shifts, uncomfortable. “Whichever’s faster.”

Lia snorts under her breath. "Not possible."

For a second, she thinks he might turn and leave. She wouldn’t blame him. But instead, he just stands there, waiting. 

She sighs and steps aside, letting him in. Against her better judgment, some part of her mutters. But he walks in like someone walking into a funeral, and somehow that feels more honest than anything he's said so far.

“You were selfish. You hurt people. You didn’t even notice half the time," she says, words honest but hopefully not cruel. Just... true.

Drew drops onto the couch like his legs gave out. He stares at the floor, jaw tight, and Lia watches the fight drain out of him.

"At Least I'm not Jake," he says after a long beat. "I didn’t just... leave."

Lia crosses the room and sits across from him, the space between them buzzing with old, broken things. The house feels too big, too hollow. Every creak in the floorboards is loud enough to feel like an accusation.

She watches him. Really watches. Misery hangs off him in heavy folds, and for the first time, she wonders if maybe he hated himself more than they ever could.

Restless, she stands again and starts making coffee, just for something to do with her hands. "You should apologize," she says, not looking at him. Maybe it’s cruel to make him say it out loud. Maybe it’s the only thing that will save him.

Drew lets out a laugh — a short, broken sound. “Yeah, to who? Everyone? Should I just rent a billboard?"

Lia doesn’t turn around. Doesn’t let him wriggle out of it.

"Start with Hailey. Jake. Zander. Elliot… Henry and Liam." She rattles the names off like they’re weights she’s dropping onto his shoulders.

She hears him shift on the couch, hears the disbelief in his voice before he even speaks.

“Henry and Liam? I didn’t even—" He cuts himself off, catching the look she throws over her shoulder.

“That’s the point," she says, voice steely now. "You don’t even see them anymore."

He leans back, scrubbing his hands over his face like he could wipe himself clean.

"I didn’t ask for any of this. I didn’t want it to go to shit," he mutters.

Lia feels something twist in her chest. Pity, maybe. Or just exhaustion. None of them asked for it. They just got stuck holding the pieces.

"No one asks for it," she says. "You still have to deal with it."

Drew slouches even further, like he’s trying to disappear. His voice is almost a whisper when he speaks again.

"I can’t just pretend like nothing happened."

“Nope," Lia says simply.

He shoots her a half-hearted glare, but it dies fast, hollow and worn-out.

"You’re still pissed at Jake," she says, not accusing. Just laying the truth out between them, like setting down a cracked mirror.

Drew doesn’t answer, and he doesn’t have to.

“He didn’t just leave," Drew says eventually, voice cracking. "He... bailed. Didn't even say anything. Just stopped showing up."

Lia leans against the counter, arms crossed. She could tell him why. Could lay it all out — the fear, the shame, the way Jake tore himself apart over it. But would Drew even hear it?

"Yeah. He did," she says instead because she can’t fault him for feeling things that she felt once.

Drew shakes his head like he wants to believe her but doesn’t know how.

"I don’t know what I’m doing anymore," he says, voice small in a way that makes her throat tighten.

Lia smiles — a dry, humorless thing. "Join the club."

She walks back over and drops onto the couch beside him, handing him a mug of coffee. Their fingers brush, and Drew flinches like he wasn’t expecting her to stay.

"You don’t have to fix it all at once," she says, voice quieter now. "Just stop making it worse."

Drew looks at her, and for a second, she sees it all — the guilt, the anger, the loneliness, all tangled up behind his eyes.

"Thanks," he says, voice rough.

Lia bumps her shoulder lightly against his, something small and almost fond threading through the space between them.

"Don’t thank me yet. You still have to actually do it."

Drew huffs out a breath — not quite a laugh, but close enough.

"No pressure or anything."

Lia smiles for real this time, tired but genuine.

"None at all."

(She remembers the snack galore grocery run, one of those stupid, spontaneous ideas they all seemed to have in those days. They’d gone on a whim, needing something to do to pass the time on a lazy Saturday afternoon. The kind of thing you do when you’re not yet bogged down by responsibilities or regrets.

Henry had somehow ended up sitting in the shopping trolley. He’d grinned like a kid at an amusement park as Liam ran full speed down the aisles, crashing into shelves, knocking things over, and laughing the whole time. Lia had picked out a few bags of chips, but by the time she reached the checkout, half of them were crumpled beyond recognition, thanks to Liam’s speed.

“Liam!” she had shouted, half laughing, half exasperated, as she tried to salvage the crushed bags. 

Liam just waved his hand dismissively, still too caught up in the thrill of running through the store. “It’s fine, it’s fine! Adds character,” he’d joked, his voice muffled by the bag of chips he was already eating.

Zoey had wandered off, as usual, to the more expensive section of the store. She was standing in front of the dips aisle, picking through the fancy brands that Lia never even looked at. The way she examined each jar with that scrutinizing eye, like she could tell which one had the perfect blend of seasoning, had made Lia roll her eyes. But it was Zoey, and Lia had gotten used to it.

Meanwhile, Jake had distracted the poor shopping clerk, his boyish grin working its magic as he joked about something, or maybe it was his charm that had them both laughing too hard at whatever he said. Lia hadn’t been paying attention, her focus already drifting toward the alcohol section. The row of bottles stood out like a neon sign, a silent promise of the fun they could have if they just decided to go for it.

Drew had joined her, but they were already at odds. She’d wanted a mixer, something to make the alcohol taste bearable. But Drew had an entirely different idea. He was looking at the stronger stuff, vodka or rum, something that could kick their asses if they weren’t careful. He’d pushed for something hardcore, while Lia tried to talk him down, arguing for the fruity stuff, something that wouldn’t burn on the way down.

“You’re seriously going to just get that?” Drew had asked, holding up a bottle of vodka with an almost disapproving look. “We’re here to drink, not sip on sugary stuff.”

Lia had crossed her arms, looking at him incredulously. “What’s the point of drinking something that tastes like shit?” she’d countered, raising an eyebrow. “I’m not trying to spend the next two hours on the floor because you wanted to play ‘tough guy’ with the alcohol.”

Drew’s eyes had narrowed, the corner of his mouth pulling up into a smirk. “Says the girl who can’t handle a drink without a mixer.”

She had scowled at him, turning back to the shelf and picking up something that was a little stronger than she’d intended, just to prove a point. “Fine, we’ll see who handles what better,” she’d said, though a part of her wasn’t really sure she wanted to prove anything. Lia doesn’t even think she drank anything that night.

Their playful bickering had ended when Zoey came over, her eyes narrowing at the bottles they’d picked out. “Please,” she’d scoffed, eyeing the shelf. “If you're going to get alcohol, get something that doesn’t make you look like an amateur.”

Lia had rolled her eyes, turning away before she could argue further. Zoey’s judgment always seemed to come in waves, and in those days, Lia had let her get away with it more than she cared to admit.

But looking back on it now, Lia couldn’t help but feel a pang of nostalgia, a bittersweet tug in her chest. They’d been so effortlessly happy back then, or at least it had seemed that way. They’d laughed and fought, shared stupid jokes and inside jokes, and they had never thought about what it would be like when they didn’t hang out anymore.

It was easier back then, when the biggest problems were what snack to pick or who could outrun who. But now? The weight of everything that had changed between them was heavy. She was sitting in the quiet of her room, feeling the absence of those moments like an ache in her ribs. Drew was here, but not really. He was a reminder of everything that had fractured, everything that couldn’t be fixed just by sitting around a grocery store and picking out chips anymore.)

“Lia?” Drew’s voice interrupts her thoughts, pulling her back into the present.

She blinks, realizing she’d been staring off into space. He’s still sitting at the kitchen table, his coffee long since gone cold. He looks like he’s about to say something, but the words seem stuck in his throat, just like always.

“Yeah?” she answers, though she knows he’s still working his way around whatever it is he wants to say.

“I... I miss it,” Drew says quietly, almost as if the words were painful for him to admit. 

Lia’s chest tightens. “Miss what?”

He shifts in his seat, finally meeting her gaze. “Us. The group. The way we used to be. Before everything fell apart.” 

Lia doesn’t know what to say. She doesn’t know if she even wants things to go back to how they were, but something in her stirs at his words. Maybe it’s the way he said it — as if it were something he lost, too. 

"Yeah," Lia finally replies, her voice softer than she expects. "I miss it, too." 

But she doesn’t add that she doesn’t know if they can ever get back to that, not when things have changed so much. Instead, she stands, turning her back to him, her hand resting on the counter as she faces the kitchen window. The silence stretches between them again, this time with an understanding she’s not sure either of them wants to fully accept.

When she finally stands to clean up, Drew follows her lead, dragging his feet as he grabs his empty mug and brings it to the sink. Neither of them says anything else, but the air between them feels different. Tense, maybe, but not hostile. There’s something fragile about this moment, something they both know won’t last. But for now, it’s enough. 

And that, Lia realizes, is more than she expected.

The rain falls in steady sheets, the kind that soaks you to the bone if you’re out in it for too long. Lia curses herself for forgetting her coat this morning. She’s standing in the small roofed alcove near the school entrance, huddling against the wall as the drizzle falls relentlessly around her. It’s not the worst thing, but she can feel the chill creeping up her spine, the dampness slowly soaking through her clothes.

She’s about to pull her phone out again to check if anyone’s messaged her when Liam strolls by, his usual nonchalant stride interrupted by the sight of her standing there. He pauses, turning to face her with an almost playful glint in his eyes.

“You need a ride, sour plum?” he asks, shaking his keys in front of her, the motion mocking her situation.

Her lips curl into a half-smile as she eyes him, her face momentarily souring in response. “Let me think about it.”

He smirks and shrugs. “It’s that or stay here and drown.” He jerks his head to the rain and then tilts it in a silent gesture toward the car. “Come on.”

Lia rolls her eyes but doesn’t protest, pushing away from the wall and walking over to his car. No Henry and Drew with him—detention for them, as usual. No surprises there.

The drive is quiet, the kind of silence that’s more comfortable than awkward. Lia doesn’t mind it. Liam’s presence doesn’t demand anything of her, and that’s rare. He’s just there, driving, letting the hum of the engine and the rhythm of the rain fill the space between them.

Then, out of nowhere, Liam speaks up. His voice is casual, but there’s a layer of something more to it, something that feels almost like he’s testing the waters.

“Drew’s been nicer lately,” he says, glancing over at her. “Say anything to him?”

Lia raises an eyebrow and tilts her head slightly, playing the innocent card. “Nope. Nothing to say,” she replies, shaking her head in mock disbelief, as if she couldn’t possibly have anything to add to that conversation.

Liam chuckles, but there’s a touch of sincerity in it, too. “Well, honorary thanks to you,” he says jokingly, eyes flicking back to the road. “I think he’s gonna talk to Jake soon.”

Lia feels a small smile tug at the corner of her lips. It’s a subtle thing, but there’s a certain warmth to it. Drew, finally doing something right. She hadn’t expected this, but in a way, it’s a relief. For him. For Jake. For everyone who’s been caught up in their mess.

“That’s nice,” she says quietly, her voice steady but genuine. “I’m glad.”

Liam doesn’t say anything else, but the small nod he gives her is enough. He doesn’t push for more, and neither does she. It’s just... one of those moments where the silence feels like a quiet understanding between them. 

Her phone buzzes against her leg. She pulls it out and the screen lights up: a picture of Hailey, smiling bright, a text underneath—"Want to hang out tomorrow?" 

Lia smiles without even realizing it, a soft, helpless thing, like something warm blooming under her ribs.

But before she can even start typing a response, Liam leans over, peering far too obviously at her screen.

"Hailey?" he says, dragging out the name in a teasing tone. "You like her or somethin’?"

Lia jolts upright, scrambling to lock her phone against her chest. "No!" she blurts—and then, quieter, almost to herself, "Maybe."

Her cheeks must betray her because Liam starts cackling, hands thumping against the steering wheel.

"Wow," he says between laughs. "So like, you fancy singers, huh? Jake and now Hailey. You’ve got a type."

Lia groans and pushes his face away from her phone with a playful shove. "Get out of my business."

He leans back dramatically, still grinning. "Maybe I should tell Henry to start taking singing lessons. Make himself more appealing."

"You wouldn’t," Lia threatens, narrowing her eyes.

"I totally would." He wiggles his eyebrows at her, enjoying himself far too much.

But then something shifts. His grin fades into something more sober. He drums his fingers lightly against the steering wheel, glancing sideways at her before speaking again, quieter this time.

"You didn’t ever like him, did you?" he asks, voice careful.

Lia's hand stills on her phone. She doesn't meet his gaze when she says, simply, "No."

There’s a beat of silence. Liam exhales slowly, almost like he'd been holding it in for a long time.

"I always thought you might," he admits. "I was a little jealous. The way you always had his attention."

Lia turns to him, blinking in disbelief. "Really?"

Liam laughs, but it’s not teasing this time. It's soft and self-deprecating. "I don't know... He's just... great. Like really great."

And it clicks—like a thread pulling taut in her mind.  

Lia finally sees it.

She remembers the way Liam used to watch Henry during one of his ridiculous, overblown speeches, not annoyed like everyone else, but fond, smiling like Henry had just said the smartest thing in the world instead of whatever dumb anime quote he was butchering.  

She remembers how Liam’s ears would pink when Henry threw an arm over his shoulder during group hangouts, how he would mutter and brush it off but never really move away.  

How Liam’s jokes about Henry’s constant texts were a little too pointed, a little too raw sometimes, especially after Lia had shrugged Henry off without thinking.  

How he never really got mad at Henry for being clingy but did get frustrated when Henry spent more time pestering Lia than noticing the boy who had been standing there, open and waiting, the whole time.

He liked him.  

He liked Henry.  

Probably for years.

And somehow, maybe Liam himself didn’t even fully realize it—or maybe he did and just didn’t know what to do with it.

Lia sits back, stunned into a gentle sort of silence, her phone still cradled against her chest.

Outside the car, the rain has slowed to a misty drizzle, little rivers of water sliding down the windows.

"I’m sorry," she says eventually, her voice soft, not sure what she’s apologizing for,maybe just for not noticing sooner.

Liam smiles, a sad, lopsided thing. "Not your fault," he says.  

And it sounds like he means it.  

But still, she sees him clench the steering wheel a little tighter, knuckles going white for just a second too long.

Neither of them says anything after that.  

They just drivel, the radio playing quietly, the air thick with all the things they now understand but aren’t ready to say out loud.  

Not yet.

The showcase is looming closer, and somehow, everything has shifted again.  

Lia barely sees Zoey anymore, not in class, not at lunch, not in the quiet after-class lull where they used to orbit each other, all sharp edges and old bruises.  

And the strangest thing is: she doesn’t think about it much.  

There’s no pit in her stomach. No ache. Just... space.  

Space for other things.

She’s nearly finished with the dress now, the one she started on a whim and stubbornness alone, and she’s determined to have it done before the showcase. No last-minute panic sewing. No desperate repairs in a bathroom stall. This time, she wants to be ready.

She runs into Jake outside the music room. His hair’s a mess, his hoodie stained with what looks suspiciously like paint, but he’s grinning—wide and easy, the kind of grin she hadn’t seen since before everything broke apart.

Apparently, Drew apologized. Or maybe they just talked.  

Either way, Jake looks lighter, like he’s breathing better in his own skin.

It’s not perfect—Drew and Hailey still crackle when they’re near each other, the tension sharp enough to slice through—but it’s something.  

It’s a start.  

Maybe, she thinks, that’s all healing ever is. Just starting again, and again, and again.

Later that night, she’s holed up in her room, the low hum of her desk lamp filling the silence. The sky outside is velvet dark, the city lights smudged and blurry through the rain-streaked window. 

She leans over the dress, pulling the last few stitches taut between her fingers, her needle flashing in the light. Her hands ache, fingertips pricked and rough, but she doesn’t care.

When she finally knots off the last thread, she steps back.

And for a moment—just a moment—she can’t breathe.

The dress is beautiful.

It’s not perfect.  

There’s a seam near the hem that pulls a little, and one side of the waist isn’t as good as she wanted, but it’s hers.  

All hers.  

The deep navy fabric catches the light like a pool of ink, and the embroidery blooms across the bodice like wild vines, curling delicate and stubborn at the same time.

She runs a hand down the fabric, slow and reverent.  

This isn’t just a dress.  

It’s proof.  

That she didn’t quit.  

That she didn’t crumble.  

That she could do something, even when everything else felt like it was slipping through her fingers.

Her phone buzzes on the nightstand. Another text from Hailey.

"Can't wait to see your dress. I bet it's gonna be amazing."

Lia smiles, warm and private.  

And for the first time in a long time, she lets herself believe it.

The day of the showcase feels like a heartbeat rattling against her ribs.   

Lia smooths down the skirt of her dress one last time before stepping outside. The late afternoon air is warm and sticky, the kind that clings to your skin and makes the world feel slower.

Drew’s car is already parked at the curb, engine humming low.  

Inside, she can see Henry waving excitedly from the passenger seat, Liam leaned back in the middle, drumming his hands against the headrest like he's warming up for something stupid.  

When she steps closer, Liam sticks his head out the window and lets out an exaggerated whistle.  

"Get in, sour plum! You’re gonna make us late looking that good!" he yells, laughing at his own terrible joke.

Lia rolls her eyes, cheeks flushing a little despite herself. She tugs open the back door and slides in beside Liam, smoothing her dress awkwardly under her legs.  

It’s the same dress she spent nights hunched over, sewing and re-sewing, and even now with it fitting her perfectly, she feels slightly out of place. Like the version of herself in this dress is someone she’s still learning to meet.

Henry twists around in his seat to beam at her. “You look awesome, Lia! Like, actually awesome. Drew even said so before you came out—”  

"Did not," Drew mutters, eyes firmly on the road.  

"You mumbled it," Henry says triumphantly.  

"I was talking about the dog across the street," Drew deadpans.  

Liam snickers under his breath.

The car rattles forward, music crackling from the old speakers. Drew is unusually quiet, one hand steady on the wheel, the other tapping a jittery rhythm against his thigh.  

It’s weirdly nice, the four of them packed in the car together, the windows rolled down, the air buzzing with nerves and half-smothered excitement.

"Ready to kick some ass?" Liam asks, nudging her with his elbow.

She shrugs, a small smile tugging at her lips. "Something like that."

They drive toward the city lights, toward the showcase, toward whatever version of themselves was waiting at the other end of this night.  

And for the first time in a long time, Lia isn’t scared of what's coming next.

Backstage was alive — cables everywhere, spotlights slicing across the ceiling, the air thick with the restless, eager kind of noise only a few minutes before a show could bring.  

Lia found Jake first, adjusting his microphone with the kind of intense focus he always had when he was nervous.  

She didn’t hesitate — she went right up to him and hugged him, tight.  

Jake stiffened, then relaxed with a quiet laugh, patting her back.  

"Good luck out there, rockstar," she said into his jacket.  

"You too, Fashion killer," he joked, squeezing her briefly before letting go.  

When she turned, Hailey was there, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, her jacket sleeves rolled neatly to her elbows.  

The world narrowed a little, the background noise fading like a volume dial turned down.  

"You look really nice," Hailey said, smiling so openly it made Lia’s stomach twist.  

"You too," Lia said, and it came out more breathless than she meant.  

Before she could chicken out, she leaned in and kissed Hailey's cheek — quick, gentle.  

A flash of bravery that left her heart racing.  

Jake let out a low, dramatic whistle, earning a snort from Zander and a loud laugh from Milly somewhere across the room.  

Lia glared at Jake half-heartedly, cheeks burning, but Hailey just laughed, bright and delighted, brushing a knuckle against Lia’s hand in a tiny, secret touch.  

Everything felt electric — the kind of alive you could only feel when something big was about to happen.  

Sean was already fiddling with his booth setup, Zander and Luke stood off to the side, holding hands — Zander clinging a little tighter than usual — and Milly bounced in place, practically vibrating with pent-up energy.  

Before Lia could get pulled any deeper into the moment, Drew materialized out of nowhere. Arms crossed, tapping his foot impatiently like he was about to dock them points for loitering.  

"There you are, losers," Drew said, mock-annoyed. "C’mon. If you don’t move your asses, we’re gonna get the worst seats in the house."  

Henry, who looked like he might be sick from nerves, immediately jolted to attention.  

Liam slung an arm lazily around Lia’s shoulder, steering her with a casual shove toward the hallway.  

Drew rolled his eyes, but there was a crooked smile tugging at his mouth.  

"Let’s go, before Henry starts a mosh pit and takes out half the first row."  

As they filed out toward the audience, Drew caught Jake’s eye across the chaotic room.  

For a second, it looked like old habits would win out — that Drew would look away, pretend not to notice.  

But this time, he didn’t.  

He gave Jake a nod — small, awkward, but real.  

Jake’s answering grin was wide and genuine.  

A start.  

Henry was babbling nervously to Liam about whether they should have brought glowsticks: "Imagine how much cooler we’d look!"  

Liam watched, full attention like he always did. Fiddling with the keys in his pocket, smirking under his breath.  

Lia walked a little ahead, her heart racing, but not from fear.  

Somewhere in all of this — the noise, the movement, the mess—something good was beginning.