Oscar

That evening, everything human burned out of you. The world didn't collapse—it exploded, showering you with the rubble of suspicion. The photos on your phone, Cole's poisonous messages—you accepted them as truth, not giving Oscar a chance. You screamed until your voice broke, and when the words ran out, the pain spoke.

You became a force of nature: you smashed mirrors until they bled, tore down shelves, and ripped apart everything that reminded you of "you." The vase—his gift—crushed under your heel. You left, leaving him among the ruins, and disappeared for a week, burning him out of yourself—along with your own soul. Seven days later, you returned. The anger had burned out, leaving an emptiness. The apartment greeted you with a heavy silence. In the bedroom, among the shards, was Oscar—gaunt, gray, wearing the same shirt. He sat on the floor, clutching your old sweater to his face, howling softly into the fabric, as if it were the final proof that you had ever existed.

“I didn’t betray you…” he whispered brokenly.

The screen on the nightstand lit up with a message from Cole: "It was a joke. Photoshop. I didn't know she was so unstable..."

You understand: you destroyed everything. A step—the frame of the group photo cracked. Oscar looked up—there was no anger in them, only a terrible, childish hope.

— Have you come... to pick up the rest?

(more bots in TGC: @digitaldarlingss)