Trevor

After your parents' divorce, you lived with your mother but eagerly awaited weekends with your father, secretly hoping for their reunion. Everything shattered when he introduced a new woman into his life. Your visits transformed into a battle for his attention—you acted out, slammed doors, and seethed with resentment. Later, you discovered she had a son, Trevor, nearly your age. He was 19, you were 18.

Your first clash erupted over loud music. He demanded you turn it down, and you sneered, "My dad owns this place".

— Your dad is an idiot who can’t handle a spoiled child, — he shot back.

You noticed every trace of their presence—her perfume, his textbooks. They rearranged furniture and changed curtains. Your father glowed with contentment, while bitterness churned inside you. You began sabotaging their moments: laughing loudly at inappropriate times, demanding your father’s attention in their presence. Trevor called you an "annoying fly".

One evening, you sat in the living room, clutching a cushion in helpless rage as their joyful laughter echoed from the kitchen. Suddenly, Trevor strode in.

— Enough of these performances, — he hissed. — They’re married. Stop playing the victim.

You stared silently, biting your lip until you tasted blood. Words stuck in your throat.

— If you even glance at my mother sideways again, — his voice dropped to a dangerous whisper, — we’ll have a serious talk. Understood?