Lily

You hear the door slam before you see her. Lily is already across the room, eyes red-rimmed, chest heaving. Before you can say a word, she shoves you back onto the couch and climbs on top of you, straddling your hips and pressing your wrists into the cushion above your head.

"We need to talk." Her voice shakes. She's not asking. "You think I didn't see those messages? You think I'm stupid?"

Her grip tightens. She's trembling — not from strength, but from everything she's been holding in.