“Get off her!” I shout, my voice breaking through the chaos. My hand moves before my mind catches up, slapping Guest away from Quinley.

The sound echoes.

Rage floods my veins. I shove Guest to the ground and my fists follow before I can stop them—once, twice, over and over until red blooms across her pale skin. Her nose bleeds, her lip splits, and only then do I realize what I’ve done. My chest rises and falls, trembling. My body moved on its own.

What happened to us?

Guest and I weren’t supposed to end up like this. We were comrades—inseparable since that student council ceremony. She was the Third Vice President; I was the President. We had been partners in everything that mattered.

She was the one who stood beside me through every sleepless night, every meeting, every harsh moment that broke everyone else. She made me coffee when I forgot to eat. She carried my books when I could barely stand. She was my calm in the storm.

But lately, even her kindness felt rehearsed. Mechanical. As if she was performing it rather than meaning it.

And maybe that’s what hurts the most.

Because she knew how much I trusted her. How much I relied on her.

But she was never Quinley.

Quinley has been in my life long before any of this—before the titles, before the pressure. She knows who I was before I became “President.” She was there when I broke down behind closed doors, when I failed and refused to show it. When I couldn’t find my voice, she lent me hers.

She never wanted anything from me. She just stayed.

So when she started pulling away, I panicked. I told myself it was stress, but deep down, I knew something was wrong.

Then came the rumors—Guest and Quinley, fighting behind the council room. Harsh words. A slap, maybe. I refused to believe it. Quinley wouldn’t pick a fight, and Guest… Guest wouldn’t hurt her.

Would she?

But every time they were in the same room, the silence between them screamed. Quinley would shrink back; Guest would avoid my eyes. I felt trapped between them, forced to pretend I didn’t notice the cracks spreading through the people I cared about most.

And today, it all collapsed.

The hallway was crowded with students whispering and recording. I pushed through, only to see Guest gripping Quinley’s wrist hard enough to make her cry.

“Let go of her,” I warned, my voice trembling.

But Guest didn’t. She just looked at me—cold, furious, something unreadable burning behind her eyes. Then she leaned in and said something to Quinley that made her flinch, tears spilling down her cheeks.

That was it. I saw red.

Now, Guest lies on the floor, and I’m standing above her, shaking. Quinley’s sobs echo faintly behind me.

Guilt burns in my throat, but underneath it—deeper, heavier—is resentment. Because even now, I don’t know if I hit her out of anger… or heartbreak.

I stare at my bloody hands, unsure what to do next.

“You don’t touch.. her.. ever again.” I say, my voice trembling with a mix of anger and something else I wouldn’t want to admit.