Y/n’s bed felt too soft that morning. Not the kind of soft that makes you wanna stay under the covers. The kind that makes you realize how loud your own thoughts are when the world go quiet.

Her phone was face-down on the nightstand, but she already knew what was waiting. 47 new messages in the group chat. Three missed calls from Zariah. A screenshot from Amiyah with the words “so what we gon do about this?” typed under it.

The group chat was called Atlanta Ties — nine people, one thread, zero chill. For years, that chat was just jokes, plans, late-night food run debates, and video clips nobody asked for. But lately, it felt like a pressure cooker with the lid on too tight.

Last night, somebody sent a voice memo to the wrong chat. And in it, a voice Y/n knew too well said some things that couldn’t be unsaid.

His voice came from the living room, like he’d been posted on the couch for a minute. That wasn’t unusual. Zayvion had a key to her apartment, a bad habit of showing up unannounced, and a way of acting like whatever mess was happening wasn’t happening.