Bombshell
~~Lyra~~
The moment Marcus walked in through that front door like he owned oxygen, I swear the entire house shifted. I mean it. The music dipped, the lights felt hotter, even the freaking air got weird and heavy like the universe itself was preparing for my breakdown.
And me?
I stood there like a stunned little loser in heels too high for my soul, gripping my red cup like it contained holy water instead of watered–down vodka punch, and staring at him like I’d just seen a demon crawl out of my past wearing expensive cologne and a smug little smirk.
Oh my God. It was him.
Marcus–f*****g–Adesina.
My ex.
The boy who ruined my life. The one who made me question every single thing about myself – from my thighs to my values to whether or not I was lovable.
The same boy who slut–shamed me for not having s*x with him, then had the audacity to flirt with my lab
partner the next week like I was just a warm–up exercise.
The same boy who said I was “pretty but boring” because I wasn’t ready to ride him like a cowgirl while I was
still figuring out what positions even meant.
I swear I could feel my stomach fold into itself.
And of course, he looked good. Because Satan doesn’t punish his own.
He was taller. Broader. His jawline looked like it’d been carved out of spite. Black jacket. Chain. Neatly done braids that I wanted to yank out with prayer and holy rage. And when his eyes met mine – those same eyes
that once convinced me I was special – I felt my soul clench like it was bracing for impact.
No. Nope. I hated him.
I hated him.
I hated the way he looked at me like he’d seen me naked – which, emotionally, he had – and didn’t even feel
bad about it. I hated the way he smiled like he could still get under my skin. I hated that my skin let him. And
most of all, I hated that he was here. In my house. At my party. Looking at me like we had unfinished
business when I swore to God I buried him in my therapy journal three mental breakdowns ago.
Tasha slid up beside me with the dumbest smirk on her face.
“Guess who’s here,” she whispered like a gleeful devil. “Marcus.”
No s**t, Sherlock. I could smell the heartbreak from here.
Before I could answer, he started walking toward me. Calm. Confident. Cocky in that way that only boys with
no conscience could pull off. Like he didn’t even care how deeply he’d hurt me. Like we were still friends. Like
I didn’t cry into a family–sized ice cream tub while watching Twilight and screaming at the screen because
III
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Edward at least had the decency to be conflicted about ruining Bella’s life.
He got close. Too close.
“Lyra,” he said, like my name was a joke only he understood.
I blinked at him. Slowly. Deliberately. Like I was trying to decide whether to slap him with my words or my
shoe.
He looked down at my cup. “Still drinking red cups at parties, huh?”
I narrowed my eyes. “Still talking like you’re auditioning for a movie nobody wants to watch?”
He laughed.
God, I wanted to slap him.
“I see you still hate me,” he said.
“Hate is a strong word,” I replied sweetly, clutching my cup so hard I was scared it would shatter. “I’d say I detest you. With the kind of energy people reserve for traffic and Wi–Fi that buffers during climax scenes. You are literally the human embodiment of why girls go to therapy:”
He didn’t even flinch. Just smiled. The nerve of this boy.
“You look good,” he said, eyes dragging over my body like he was allowed.
I smiled back. “And you look like a cautionary tale. A walking red flag. A lesson I should’ve learned the first
time. But hey second degree burns build character.”
He tilted his head. “Still got that fire. I like that.”
I nearly gagged. “You also liked calling me frigid because I wouldn’t let you put your unwashed demon d**k
inside me, remember that?”
His smile froze.
I leaned in, voice lower now. “You made me feel like I wasn’t enough, Marcus. You humiliated me. You made
me believe that not giving you s*x meant I didn’t love you. You made jokes about me to your friends. You
turned something sacred to me into a punchline. So yeah. I look good now. But I felt like s**t for months because of you.”
He opened his mouth like he wanted to defend himself – like he hadn’t been the villain in every chapter of
that story and I held up my hand.
–
“Don’t. Just don’t. Don’t apologize. Don’t explain. Don’t act like this is nostalgia. It’s not. It’s trauma. Dressed in denim and cologne.”
He stared at me, quiet now.
Then he did that thing. That stupid smirk. That little arrogant smirk that said he still thought he had power over me. That smirk I used to think was cute, before I realized it was hiding fangs.
And then – oh my God – he leaned in. Right into my space. Into my breath. Into my unresolved wounds.
“If I kissed you right now,” he said low, like a threat, “would you still pull away?”
I didn’t blink.
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Bombshell
I didn’t stutter.
I looked him right in the eyes, tilted my chin like the bad b***h I was learning to become, and smiled.
“No. I’d slap you. Then I’d rinse my mouth with holy water and burn the air between us.”
He blinked.
I turned away.
Because I was done.
Not healed. Not okay. But done.
And if he tried me tonight?
I would show him what it meant to play with a girl who learned how to set fire to her own pain.
I don’t know what kind of ancient demon possessed Marcus that night, but the way he leaned in to me like we were about to have some cute, nostalgic movie moment where old flames reignite under disco lights and fake forgiveness I swear my body rejected it.
He was right in front of me, inches away, his breath hitting my face like temptation and trauma mixed into one. His stupid smirk was back, eyes half–lidded like he thought this was foreplay. Like I still wanted him. Like two years of pain and humiliation were just foreplay for the big reunion kiss.
I stood there frozen, heart thumping like it was trying to fight its way out of my chest and run out the front door, but then his hand reached up – and I snapped.
No, I detonated.
I slapped him.
So hard.
Like ancestors rose in my palm and said, “Let her cook.”
The entire party froze. Music still played in the background like the world hadn’t just ended, but the people? They stopped. Mid–dance, mid–laugh, mid–sip. Like the slap echoed through the floorboards and rearranged everyone’s understanding of who the hell I was.
Marcus’s head tilted sideways from the impact, jaw clenched, face stunned, hand still slightly raised as if he
was holding the kiss that never happened.
I dropped my cup.
Didn’t even flinch when the red liquid splashed all over my sandals and the floor. I didn’t care. I didn’t blink. I didn’t even apologize – because sorry was for accidents, and this? This was a public service announcement.
He looked at me slowly, like he couldn’t believe it. Like I was supposed to still be that little broken girl crying in the bathroom stall with toilet paper in my hand, replaying his voice note over and over again. But I wasn’t that girl anymore. I was eighteen. I was angry. And I had a platform now – the entire party.
I stepped forward.
“Don’t you ever,” I started, voice trembling from how hard I was holding it together, “try to touch me like that again. Not here. Not ever. Not after what you did. Not after how you made me feel like I wasn’t enough unless
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Bombshell
I stripped for your ego.”
He opened his mouth like he wanted to speak, and I cut him off with a raised finger.
“No. Don’t talk. Don’t even breathe in my direction right now. You think this is cute? You think just because
you got taller and started dressing like an i********: reel that I forgot everything? I remember, Marcus.
“I remember everything. The voice notes. The comments. The way you laughed about me in your group chat. The way you told people I probably didn’t even know what head meant, like my innocence was funny, like my body was some dumb joke you couldn’t cash in on.”
He had the nerve to shift like he was uncomfortable. Good.
“You kissed me, made me feel like I mattered, then ghosted me and came back with a meme about girls who don’t suck d**k. You made me feel like my worth was tied to what I didn’t give you. You made me think something was wrong with me. And now you walk back in here, like nothing happened, like we’re just two old
flames with unresolved tension?”
I laughed. Loud. Bitter.
“There’s no tension here. There’s just me trying not to vomit in this party dress while you parade around acting like you’re God’s gift to women.”
Gasps. Murmurs. I could feel the room shifting. People were watching. And I didn’t even care anymore.
Then I heard it.
Low. Whispered.
Behind me.
“She slapped him harder than she slapped Tasha when she found out.“–
The breath caught in my throat.
Wait.
I turned slowly. Because something in my bones knew.
“What did you just say?” I asked, voice too calm. Too still.
The girl blinked. Froze. “Nothing. I–I didn’t mean-”
I locked eyes with Tasha.
She had the nerve to avoid my gaze.
My best friend. My sister in soul ties and snack runs. My partner in pain. She was staring at her shoes like they held the secret to world peace.
I stepped forward again.
“Tasha. What the f**k is she talking about.”
She didn’t answer.
Oh. Oh no.
“Tasha. What. The f**k. Is she talking about?”
Still silence. Just the low bass of the music and my own blood screaming in my ears.
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48 points >
And then someone else some drunk i***t who didn’t know how to shut up – decided to end my life.
–
“She means when Tasha and Marcus hooked up last year.”
The silence that followed could’ve sucked the roof off the house.
I stared at Tasha. I mean stared.
My brain tried to process, to reject, to pretend maybe they meant another Tasha or another Marcus, but my stomach already knew the truth. It dropped like a bag of bricks. My chest hollowed. My throat tightened.
“You what?”
She looked up finally. Her face was pale. Her mouth opened. Closed.
“It was..it was just once. It didn’t mean anything. It was stupid…“.
Oh f**k this b***h!”
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