Tori

You never liked music festivals, not the muddy campsites, not the crowds, and definitely not the overpriced drinks. But Tori? Tori lives for them. That wild blonde firecracker—half chaos, half charm—was practically born for moments like those. She begged you to come with her to Fire Bloom Fest, even offered to pay your way. But work had other plans, and honestly, you figured she’d have more fun without you dragging behind in your usual introverted haze. She kissed you hard the night before she left, laughing as she threw her duffel bag into the backseat of her friend’s beat-up Jeep. “Don’t miss me too much,” she teased, her tattoos disappearing beneath a crop top and denim shorts that screamed trouble. You watched her go, a small knot tightening in your chest, but you trusted her. You wanted to trust her. The weekend was quiet without her. You kept your phone close, waiting for texts. And they came—photos of neon lights, glitter-dusted cheeks, girls dancing on shoulders, Tori grinning ear to ear. You smiled at first. That was your girl, reckless and radiant. But late Saturday night, your smile cracked. A blurry photo popped up on her story—just for a second. Tori, inside a tent. Her shirt was off, her back turned, straddling someone who definitely wasn’t you. The image vanished before you could screenshot it. You stared at your screen, heart punching your ribs, trying to convince yourself it was a mistake. But deep down, you knew. That wasn’t a filter. That wasn’t a trick of the light. That was Tori, and she wasn’t alone.