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It was cold. Ironically cold.
Summer was at its peak — no one outside dared to wear long sleeves or sweatpants, and the sun over Piltover burned as if it were trying to prove something. But inside that house — in that perfect, polished room with ivory curtains and walls that never held dust — it was so cold it felt like the dead of winter. Like midnight in Zaun, when the fog cuts through your coat and your bones at once.
She wasn’t looking at me.
She wore soft cotton shorts, her knees pulled to her chest, arms wrapped tightly around them, and half of her face buried between her thigh and forearm. Her eyes had been red since the second I walked in — and she hadn’t looked at me even once. I sat down in front of her when I asked what I was supposed to do, and she said nothing. The marble floor was colder than I expected after walking through that hellish heat outside. My hands were sweating, but not because of the weather.
The sun was setting.
Summer always takes its time to say goodbye in Piltover, so I guessed it had to be around eight or nine at night. The shift in the natural light caught her attention, and I saw her move for the first time since I’d arrived — two hours earlier, after the weird, hollow voice message she’d left me — and she lifted her head from where her chin and lips had been resting. She turned her face toward me — not quite at me, just... toward me. Still avoiding eye contact.
Her eyes were damp.
There were dried tear stains at the corners, and her dark circles looked sharper than ever. Her lips were cracked, and the way the orange light hit her skin made her look pale — ghostly.
My hands started sweating even more. Somehow.
I tried to catch her eyes with mine, and I moved a millimeter closer. Just a bit. But she flinched.
Like I was on fire. Like I had thrown myself at her with a match in my hand.
My throat tightened, and my fingers started to shake. I had no idea what was going on. What had happened. What had pushed her into that state. But I started to wonder if maybe… maybe it had something to do with me.
— What happened? — I remember asking.
My voice was low, careful, almost afraid to exist in that silence. It crossed the room, hovered somewhere near the shelves full of her mother’s law books. I tilted my head, trying again — desperately — to find her eyes. — Cupcake, what happened?
— Don’t call me that. — That was the first thing she said to me since I walked into that room.
Her voice was rough. Cold. The kind of cold that scratches the inside of your throat when you've cried too much and gone silent for too long.
I stepped back.
Physically, emotionally — I stepped out of whatever place we used to share.
Her name is Caitlyn. But I’ve always had a thing for nicknames, and I was the only one who called her Cupcake. Since we were kids. Since the first time she rolled her eyes and told me I was “infuriating.” Since I made her laugh, even when she didn’t want to. Since always.
My eyes blinked slowly, and I pulled my hand away, uncertain, confused.
I was really, really lost at that point. No matter how hard I tried to make sense of it, I couldn’t find a single reason for her to be acting like this.
The truth was… I didn’t even know what was going on.
— What happened? — I repeated. — What’s going on that I’m not allowed to call you Cupcake anymore?
Caitlyn looked at me.
After hours of silence. After what felt like the end of the world.
She finally turned her head in my direction and looked straight at me.
Her eyes — god, those blue eyes — had always been one of my favorite things about her. They changed shades when the sun hit just right. And her pupils used to dilate when she talked about something she loved. But now?
They were cold. Cold and dry.
Like they didn’t remember me.
— I’m leaving. — she said. Her tone was sharp. Solid. And I remember the way she looked at me — like it was my fault. And as if she could read my thoughts, she added: — And it’s your fault.
I blinked.
I was confused. My head was still trying to process anything that could explain what was happening. Her sentence — “I’m leaving” — hadn’t even reached my heart yet. It was still spiraling somewhere in my brain while my eyes widened in disbelief.
— My fault? — I asked.
And in that exact second, her words started slipping into my chest, and I felt the air thinning around me.
— Why are you leaving? What do I have to do with any of this?
— What do you have to do with it? — she repeated, soaked in sarcasm and rage, and I instinctively backed against the wall. — Of course. Poor Vi. She’s never to blame for anything. She never knows shit!
— Of course I don’t know shit! — I snapped back. Even with my hands shaking and my eyes wide, completely lost, I yelled. I’ve never been good at staying quiet when people yell at me. I cry later. But in the moment, I fight back. — You never explain anything to me!
She shook her head and let out a humorless laugh — the kind that sounds more like pain than amusement — and she got up from the floor in one swift, almost violent motion. I mirrored her, standing up immediately, and she stared at me with this burning anger that kept building and building like she needed somewhere to throw it.
She walked past me and slammed her shoulder into mine. It was hard. Caitlyn was taller than me, all lean legs and perfect posture. People thought she was delicate, but she was strong. Not stronger than me. But still strong. That stupid bump left my shoulder sore for days after.
I followed her.
The room was too perfect. Too quiet. Too cold.
She crossed it and stopped by the counter near her closet, grabbed her tablet, and slammed it onto the surface so hard I thought it would shatter. It didn’t. The screen stayed intact, glowing. And she looked at me sharp, clear: she wanted me to go look.
When I got closer, I leaned in and saw the tablet open to a message thread with Cassandra Kiramman.
And I frozen.
The text. The image.
The photo at the top was grainy, taken from a distance — but it was us.
Me with my chopped-up pink hair and busted old jacket, and her in her school uniform, half-smiling, arm around my waist.
And the message underneath?
“is this ur daughter? kinda dyke-ish if u ask me”
My stomach dropped.
I pulled my eyes off the screen and looked at Caitlyn in disbelief. She looked like she was about to cry again, but the rage in her eyes hadn't left.
Not even a little.
— I’m so sorry, Cait. I can’t believe- — I was trying to calm her down, trying to find the start of this mess, but she cut me off instantly.
— Don’t call me that, for fuck’s sake. — she snapped again, louder, with more bite this time. I took a step back from the counter, staring at her with my eyes wide open. — This is all your fault. All of it. My mom walked into my room this morning and said, “pack your things.” That’s it. No conversation. No explanation. Just go. Because of you.
— My fault? I didn’t send that to her! Why are you treating me like this?
— Why? Why? — She laughed, and it sounded like broken glass. — I didn’t want to do this. I told you I was going to be completely fucked if anyone found out and told my parents. My mom. But you insisted, didn’t you? You promised nothing would happen! You swore no one would ever find out!
— Don’t talk like I forced you to do anything, Caitlyn. Don’t do that. — I shook my head.— You kissed me first. You touched me first. All I ever did was love you back and make you feel safe — like I always did, long before we were anything else. I won’t let you turn me into the villain in something neither of us should be blamed for.
— You are to blame.
— I’m not. — I shook my head again. I was drowning in feelings — too many — and I didn’t know which one would win.
I didn’t know if I should grieve the fact that she was leaving, or if I should feel crushed by how she was treating me.
I didn’t know if I was mourning the end of us, or the moment we stopped being just best friends.
— I won’t let you put this all on me. I can’t.
— That doesn’t mean you’re not guilty. — she said, eyes still sharpened and locked on mine. And that’s when I realized: she didn’t care.— My whole life is over, and it’s because of you, Violet. You. — She scoffed. Let out a bitter laugh. — And to think… I was warned.
— What are you talking about now? — I rolled my eyes.
I couldn’t believe this was actually happening — that I was watching my oldest friend fall apart in front of me, and somehow I was the one being torn apart with her.
— The truth! — she said, voice climbing an octave. — Maddie warned me about you. She told me to be careful.
— Maddie? — That had to be a joke. — Maddie Nolan? — I let out a dry laugh. — The girl who’s been obsessed with you since primary school? Oh come on, Caitlyn. You’re not seriously telling me you’re taking her word for anything, are you?
— She’s not obsessed with me, Vi! — she shouted. — And look at you — already twisting everything, trying to make me look like an idiot!
I stared at her, not understanding a single thing anymore.
I took a step toward the counter where her tablet still lay open, the messages from her mother still glowing back at us. There were three of them. The blurry photo. The message underneath.
“is this ur daughter? kinda dyke-ish if u ask me”
My eyes narrowed.
The photo was bad, yeah, but the words — the way they were written — something about them was... familiar.
You know that feeling when you recognize something, but you can’t say why yet?
Caitlyn was still talking. Saying things against me that I wasn’t even holding onto anymore. Even if everything was falling apart, I didn’t want to hate her.
I just wanted to understand.
But something about that message — something in it was pulling me harder than anything she was saying.
I stared at the screen. I let the words burn into my eyes.
And then it hit me.
I reached for my phone in my pocket, fingers trembling just enough to make the gesture feel heavier than it should. I didn’t check the time. I didn’t need to. The screen lit up anyway — 9:37 p.m. — and a flurry of missed calls from Craggor and Vander, their names stacked on top of each other like bricks in a wall I didn’t have the strength to climb tonight.
They were asking where the hell I was. Again. As if that mattered now.
I ignored them.
I scrolled straight to the archived chats. My heart knew where to go before my thumb did. I hadn’t saved Maddie’s number. Never had. Never wanted to. We weren’t friends. Not really. Not ever. Just two people orbiting the same fucked-up sun, held together by school politics and mutual silence — the kind of silence that makes your skin crawl.
It took a while.
My hands were shaking, and every chat felt like a ghost. But I found it.
The last message she ever sent me. Weeks ago.
One of those dumb, too-loud college parties where everyone smells like sweat and alcohol and regret, where nobody really knows anyone and yet everyone is pretending to be seen. The kind of party that 15-year-olds in their first year of high school definitely shouldn't be at, but who cares?
“u seen that girl next to Mel? kinda cute-ish but like… idk if she’s into girls lol”
That was it. That was Maddie.
I stared at it for a second too long.
That cruel little curl of her personality in just one line — pretending to care, pretending to be curious, but only ever halfway there. That flippant “ish.” That lazy “u.” That empty laugh at the end.
I placed the phone next to Caitlyn’s tablet. Gently. Like it was glass.
I laid them both flat on the counter — side by side — and zoomed in on the texts, until the letters looked like they could scream if they had mouths.
At the top, my screen. Her text:
“u seen that girl next to Mel? kinda cute-ish…”
And beneath it, the one her mother had received, the one Caitlyn was accusing me of having sent:
“is this ur daughter? kinda dyke-ish if u ask me”
There it was. Identical.
I swallowed hard. My voice was raw, rough around the edges when I finally spoke.
— Voilà. — I said, letting the word hang there, cold and sharp like broken glass. I gestured between the two screens, my hand trembling just a little. — Look.
She looked.
First with confusion. Then with something deeper. Something quieter. Her eyes narrowed. Her breath hitched.
— What… what is this?
— You don’t recognize it? — I asked, and my voice came out lower than I intended. Steadier. Angrier. Tired. — The way of writing? The “ish” thing? The lowercase “u” instead of “you”? That’s Maddie.
That’s her. That’s how she talks.
That’s who she is.
I leaned closer, my voice now barely above a whisper but thick with something sharp and unforgiving.
I stepped back. Gave her space to breathe, even though I wasn’t sure she wanted it. Or deserved it.
— She’s the one who did this to you, Caitlyn. Not me.
She went pale, and I saw it all — the unraveling of posture, the slow collapse of certainty. It happened so quietly that, if I hadn’t been watching closely, I might’ve missed it. But I was watching.
I saw how her shoulders dipped inward, how her breath caught just short of her chest, how her mouth opened like she meant to say something but couldn’t quite remember how. The anger was gone, dissolved into something heavier, something quieter. And what remained in her eyes wasn’t rage or disbelief — it was grief.
A small, stunned, grieving sort of ache that sat between us like a third person in the room.
For a brief, flickering moment, I understood her. I really did.
She and Maddie had grown up side by side in the glow of chandeliers and custom-tailored lives — those curated childhoods where summers had itineraries and smiles were taught before speech. The Nolans were just as polished, just as unreachable, as the Kirammans. And when I showed up at that school at five years old, with grease on my hands and a scholarship that smelled like oil and cracked sidewalks, Maddie had looked at me like I was dirt tracked across her mother's carpet. She never had to say it out loud — the contempt was in the way she stood straighter when I passed, in the way her friends giggled a little louder when I walked by.
But it wasn’t just about class. It never was.
Because even back then — even before we really had words for it — it was obvious Maddie was in love with Caitlyn.
It clung to her like something perfumed and desperate, something sharp beneath the sweetness. The way she watched Caitlyn laugh. The way her body shifted every time Caitlyn entered a room. The way her smile only reached her eyes when Caitlyn looked her way.
And it must’ve burned — God, it must’ve burned — when Caitlyn chose me. When I became her Cupcake. When her gaze turned to me with that softness Maddie had dreamed about in silence. Maddie never accepted it. She just learned how to wear her heartbreak like an accessory — perfectly matched to her shoes and her venom. She weaponized her smile. She sharpened her laughter into something that could cut.
But even knowing all that — even carrying every piece of context — nothing made this easier to swallow.
Nothing softened the blow of what Caitlyn had done tonight.
Of what she’d said. Of how quickly she believed I could be cruel to her. The weight of her blame still pressed against my ribs, even now, even after she’d seen the truth with her own eyes. I had shown her everything.
I had proved I wasn’t the one who sent that message. And still, something in me had already snapped, quietly, beneath the surface. Because no matter how undeniable the proof, no matter how clean the evidence, Caitlyn had still turned to me and made me the villain of her story.
I stepped back as she turned toward me, not out of fear, but out of something quieter — preservation.
Some instinct deep inside me knew I couldn’t stay too close.
Because even with the lie peeled back, I was already drowning in everything she’d made me feel tonight. I didn’t recognize her anymore. Not the girl who used to laugh until she cried beside me on the kitchen floor. Not the girl who dragged me into dance battles in her hallway at two in the morning. Not the girl who whispered my name like it meant something sacred two weeks ago, beneath the safety of her blanket.
That girl had screamed at me like I was nothing. That girl had looked at me and said I ruined her life. And no matter how much I wanted to forget it, I couldn’t unhear it. The shouting. The names. The accusations.
They ricocheted through my skull like echoes in an empty cathedral.
My eyes were burning — hot, tight, trembling. I could feel the ache gathering behind my lashes, the way it always did before I broke. She tried to speak. Her voice shook.
– Vi, I’m sorry. I really am, I... — I cut her off.
And I never do that.
I’m the one who listens.
Who waits. Who lets people finish their thoughts, no matter how painful they are.
But tonight, I couldn’t. I was exhausted. Heart-tired in a way that felt ancient. Like the grief of something I hadn’t even fully lost yet had already taken root in my chest.
All I wanted — all I truly wanted — was to be held by the person I thought would never hurt me.
But she did. She broke me.
And it was in that moment that I finally understood that quote I used to think was overly dramatic:
“When two girls break up, they lose their girlfriend and their best friend in one blow.”
It’s true. Because I hadn’t just lost Caitlyn’s love tonight — I’d lost the only person who knew the sound of my silence.
– You don’t have to say anything. I get it. — I said, quietly.
But she did have to. And I didn’t get it. Not even close. I just didn’t have the strength to stand there and listen to whatever came next. She shook her head quickly, her eyes glistening again, her lips parted in panic, but I beat her to it.
— I’m really sorry about all this, — I said, and I meant it. — I can’t even begin to tell you how sorry I am about what happened with your parents. About how they reacted. About you having to leave your home.
She looked at me like I was the one cutting her open.
— Vi, please… don’t go cold on me. Not now. — she whispered.
But the truth was, I wasn’t being cold. I was just… gone. I’d disappeared into myself the way I always did when something ended. I’d turned to ice, buried myself in silence.
That was how I survived. She knew that.
Or at least, she used to.
I’d always thought no one knew me better than Caitlyn. But tonight had proved I was wrong about that too.
— Let’s just talk, please, I...
— I have thirty missed texts from Mylo. — I said, voice flat. — The sun’s going down. And I can’t look at you without wanting to cry. — I pointed behind me, toward the window, not bothering to turn. — I need to go home. And you need to pack. I don’t want to be here when your mom gets back.
The truth was, I wanted to disappear. For a week. For a year. Maybe forever.
But Caitlyn stepped closer anyway, closing the space between us until our breathing overlapped. She was taller — always had been — but I didn’t lift my chin. I wouldn’t. Still, her fingers found my jaw, cool and trembling, tilting my face up with a softness that nearly undid me. I closed my eyes, tightly.
Because if I looked at her — if I saw that look again — I would shatter.
She still smelled the same. Those fragrance-free soaps she used because of her sensitive skin. Warm cotton. Familiar skin. Her shirt was too thin. Her stomach peeked out just slightly. And I stood there, unmoving. Not breathing. Not speaking. Just waiting for the moment to end before it broke me.
She stroked my cheek. Then she pulled me into a hug.
I didn’t hug her back
I wanted to. God, I wanted to collapse into her arms and let it all out — the hurt, the betrayal, the exhaustion.
I wanted to sob into her shoulder like a kid left behind. But all I could do was stand there, frozen, while every word she’d screamed at me hours earlier echoed through my bones.
Something cracked in me. I felt it. A small, quiet fracture that would never quite heal right again. My body went cold. That’s what I remember most. The shift in temperature. The way it felt like winter creeping under my skin. I wanted to stay. I wanted to forgive. I wanted to forget. But instead, I stepped away. Gently. Carefully. Like she was something precious I didn’t want to drop — and something dangerous I couldn’t afford to hold.
I crossed the room. Picked up my phone. Walked out.
– Vi, don’t do this. Please. Let’s just talk. — she cried behind me, her voice cracking under the weight of everything she hadn’t said.
I turned halfway, just enough to see her silhouette.
— I already told you. You don’t need to say anything. It’s fine. These things happen. — All lies. Three in a row. I swallowed hard. – But I can’t keep doing this. Not after what you said.You didn’t believe me. You blamed me. You treated me like I was nothing.
She tried to speak again, but I lifted my hand. A slow wave. A quiet goodbye.
— I really wish you the best, Cait. I mean that. My throat burned. — I’ll keep the good memories. The ten years. The laughs. The beginnings.
— Vi… — She breathed.
I almost said her name one last time. Almost.
But I didn’t.
— Good luck, Cupcake.
And I walked out the door. Without looking back.
My house was in the city next to theirs. Less polished, more alive. The kind of place with peeling paint on the porch and dogs barking across the street, but it was mine.
I walked the entire way back with my arms around myself, crying — not loud, not sobbing — but the kind of crying that hurts your throat and clouds your vision, the kind that makes it impossible to breathe through your nose.
I remember it was around ten at night when I turned onto my block and saw Vander’s shape sitting on the porch steps, arms resting on his knees, a cigarette burning slow in his fingers. He’d been trying to quit — said he only smoked now when the system pissed him off or when one of us scared him enough to forget how to cope.
He looked up when he heard me coming through the gate. I was still hugging myself. Still crying. I watched his eyes go wide. He tossed the cigarette into the dirt and stood up too fast, like his body knew something was wrong before his mind caught up.
— Vi? — He asked, voice sharp. — What the hell happened? Where were you? — But I couldn’t answer.
I didn’t say anything. I just walked to him and collapsed in his arms like I was eight again. He held me. Tight. I could feel his hand on the back of my head, the other across my back, like if he didn’t hold hard enough I’d disappear.
I didn’t say a single word. And he didn’t ask again. Just pulled me inside.
Silco was in the kitchen, still on the phone, voice tense and clipped.
He was probably calling hospitals or checking cameras from the tram station, because... of course he was.
He stepped out into the hallway the second we walked in, saw Vander with me, and shouted up the stairs something like, “She’s home,” before turning back and telling whoever was on the line to forget it, to close the report. That was them — even in crisis, always shouting back and forth like life didn’t scare them.
Vander took me to my room. I sat down on the edge of the bed, hands in my lap, feeling like my skin didn’t fit me anymore. I told him I was gonna shower and sleep.
He didn’t argue.
Just gave me this look like he wanted to say a thousand things and knew none of them would fix anything. So he nodded and left.
I did shower. Head against the cold tile for half the time, water running too hot, not moving. I put on my oldest, softest t-shirt. Climbed into bed. Faced the wall. Didn’t touch my phone. Cried for what felt like an hour without making a sound.
Then the door creaked open.
Quiet. Almost careful.
I didn’t move. I didn’t even turn my head. But I could hear the faint rustle of slippers, the soft shift of weight on floorboards. Then a whisper, small and thread-thin:
– Vi…? — It was Powder. I heard the door close behind her. — I saw you come in. You looked really sad. — She said, voice barely above a breath. — Mylo and Craggor told me to leave you alone. Said you needed space or whatever. But I didn’t want you to be by yourself.
I turned my head just enough to see her.
Eleven years old and standing at the edge of my room in her pj's, gripping that patched-up rabbit she’s had since she was a baby. One of the ears was half-detached, and the stuffing peeked out from a spot near the leg. Her eyes were wide, cautious. But her chin was tilted like she’d made up her mind.
Dad gave it to me when mom left the hospital. It was mine until Pow was born four years later. Aside from a few memories, it's the only thing we have of them.
— I can go if you want. — Pow added quickly. — I just— I didn’t want you to cry alone.
I didn’t say anything. I just lifted the blanket.
She padded over instantly, rabbit in hand, and climbed in beside me without asking anything else. Her hair smelled like strawberry shampoo. Her toes were cold against my leg. She curled into my side and put the rabbit on my chest, like maybe it could do something about the hole in it.
I wrapped my arm around her. She tucked her face into my shoulder. And I didn’t cry again, not that night. I just breathed. Slowly. Until I fell asleep to the sound of her breathing too, both of us curled up like we’d been scared by the same dream.
When I woke up the next morning, it was because the smell of toast and black coffee had snuck into my room.
The sunlight was soft, still not fully committed to the day, stretching across the floor in pale lines. Powder was gone — probably already downstairs in socks too big for her, stealing sips of Mylo’s coffee when he wasn’t looking.
I got up slowly, face puffy, limbs heavy, and walked downstairs.
Craggor was passed out on the couch with his feet sticking out from under a blanket and his history book open across his chest. Silco was already gone. And Mylo pretended, while he waited for his toast to burn, not to see what Pow did with his coffee.
Vander was in the kitchen too, leaning against the counter with a second mug waiting. He didn’t ask anything. Just put a grilled cheese on a plate and pushed it across the table to me. I sat down. Picked it up. Took a bite. It was too soft, like he’d left it in the pan too long, but I didn’t care.
We didn’t speak for a few minutes. The kitchen was quiet after Pow jumped out of her chair and ran outside when Ekko rang the doorbell, calling her to cycle, and Mylo decided to go wake Crag.
The kitchen was quiet in that early-morning way. The sun hadn’t fully risen, just leaking sideways through the windows like it didn’t know if it should show up.
After a while, Vander said, not looking at me, — Cassandra posted a photo at the harbor. From the comments, apparently only… Cait left…
I nodded. Bit the sandwich again. Swallowed.
— Good luck to her. — I remember saying.
And that was it.
My heart was still completely broken, and I knew I would cry for a long time every time I thought about Caitlyn, but I also knew it would pass.
Sooner or later (very late)... it would pass.