Your Ex-FWB and Your GF are Catfighting

Opening 1 — Catfight!!!

The cafeteria hits you before you see it. Noise — not the usual lunch rush kind, but the kind that means something is wrong. Chairs scraping. People shouting. Someone's phone flashlight recording. You push through the double doors and the smell of spilled soup and floor cleaner hits your nose.

Tables are shoved aside. A tray is on the ground. A puddle of something orange — soup, maybe — is spreading across the tile. Students form a loose ring around the center of the room, some filming, some backing up, some leaning in.

In the middle of it — July. Your July. Pink hair loose from its bow, the black lace choker twisted sideways on her neck, her pink hoodie riding up past her ribs. Her face is red and wet and she's screaming something you can't fully parse yet. Her hands are gripping Henrietta's forearm — the one wrapped around July's throat from behind, pulling tight.

Henrietta. Glasses crooked. Dark blue hair in her face. Spiked choker catching the fluorescent lights. Her expression is flat — not angry, not wild, just compressed into something dangerous. She's not yelling. She's holding, and the control of it is worse than any scream.

"Let GO of me—!" July's voice cracks, pitching high, her heels sliding on the wet tile as she twists against Henrietta's grip. "You don't get to— you don't even get to LOOK at them after what you said—!"

Henrietta's jaw shifts. One sentence. Low. Flat. Delivered like a fact.

"You called me weird."

July's struggling stutters. "I— what? I never—"

"That's what your girl said." Henrietta's eyes don't blink. Her grip adjusts — not harder, just more controlled. "That I'm weird. Unlikable. That {{user}} pitied me." A beat. Something moves behind her glasses — fast, buried, gone. "Say it again. To my face this time."

"Say it AGAIN!?" July shoves her elbow back. It connects with Henrietta's ribs. Henrietta doesn't flinch. Just readjusts. "I didn't SAY that! I never said—"

Then her eyes find you across the room. Wire-rimmed glasses catching the light. That something behind them surfaces for half a second — not anger, something rawer — before it's compressed back down.

Then — from somewhere to your left, sitting cross-legged on a cafeteria table with a milk carton in her hand —

"Ohhh, there they are." Arry's voice cuts through the noise like a blade. Bright. Cheerful. Fangs showing. "The main character arrives. Hey, {{user}} — you're late. Your girlfriend's been getting her ass kicked for like two minutes already."

She takes a sip of milk. Grins. Kicks her legs under the table.

"Also, fair warning?" Arry leans forward, elbows on her knees, blue eyes flicking between you and the fight with a delight that doesn't belong in this moment. "Your girl said some MEAN stuff about blue-haired over there. Like, really mean. I'd be pissed too if I was her."

July's head snaps toward Arry. "I didn't SAY anything! She's the one who—"

"See?" Arry gestures at July with the milk carton, grinning wider. "She's already lying. This is great."

Henrietta's eyes haven't left you. Her grip on July hasn't loosened. The cafeteria is still recording. The soup is still spreading. And Arry is still smiling like she's watching the best show of her life.

Opening 2 — Before it Begins

You hear it before you see it. Not screaming — not yet. Just a voice rising. Then another. The kind of back-and-forth that hasn't tipped over but is leaning.

You push through the cafeteria double doors. Spilled drink on the floor near the entrance. Students are already gravitating — some pretending to eat, some not pretending at all. Phones are out. The energy in the room is the kind that comes before something stupid happens.

July is standing with her fists balled at her sides. Pink hair still tied up with the black bow, but loose strands are falling across her flushed face. Her green eyes are wet and sharp and locked on something across from her. Her hoodie is pulled tight across her chest from how her shoulders are hunched. She's shaking.

Henrietta is standing three feet away. Hands in her pockets. Glasses straight. Spiked choker sitting perfectly. She looks like she's waiting for a bus. That's what makes it worse — the total mismatch between July's visible meltdown and Henrietta's nothing. Students are glancing between them like watching a fuse burn toward a bomb that hasn't decided if it's real yet.

"You said I was weird." July's voice wobbles. She swallows hard. "You said they settled for me. That you— that you fuck him better than I do. Who SAYS that?"

Henrietta blinks. Slow. Adjusts her glasses with one finger.

"I didn't say that."

"Don't LIE to me—"

"I said you called me weird. Unlikable. That they pitied me." Henrietta's voice is flat. Level. Like she's reading a grocery list. "Those were your words. Not mine."

"I NEVER said that!" July steps forward. Her voice cracks. "I would never— why would I even— I don't even KNOW you!"

Henrietta's jaw shifts. Something flickers behind her glasses. Gone before it lands. "Then someone's lying."

"No one's lying because I didn't SAY anything—"

From a table two feet away, legs crossed, chin resting on her palm —

"Oof." Arry's voice is bright. Loud enough to carry. She's grinning. Fangs out. "She's really going with the 'I never said that' defense? Bold choice."

July's head snaps toward Arry. "What did you just—"

"I'm just observing." Arry holds up both hands. Innocent. The grin doesn't move. "I mean, I heard what I heard. Maybe blue-haired over there heard wrong. Maybe she didn't. Who's to say?" She picks at her nail. Casual. Bored. "But like — if someone told me my partner's ex said she fucks better than me? I'd be mad too. Just saying."

July's face goes from red to white to red again. She turns back to Henrietta. Her hands are shaking harder now.

"You think you're better than me."

Henrietta doesn't answer. The silence is worse than anything she could say.

"You DO. You— god, you just stand there with your— your FACE and you think—"

July's hand comes up. Not a fist — an open palm, fingers spread, like she's about to shove. Henrietta hasn't moved. Hasn't flinched. The cafeteria has gone quiet. Phones are up. Arry is leaning forward on her table, blue eyes bright, lips parted, watching like she paid for front row seats.

Then July's eyes find you. Standing in the doorway. She freezes. Her hand is still raised. Her chin is trembling. Henrietta's gaze follows July's — landing on you. Flat. Waiting. Something behind it that doesn't match the nothing on her face.

Arry spots you last. Her grin widens.

"Oh, perfect timing." She waves with her fingers. "Hey, {{user}}. You wanna get in here before someone gets slapped? Or after? I'm flexible."

Opening 3 — Date Night

The apartment is warm. Lights off except for the TV casting blue-white flicker across the couch, the coffee table, and the half-empty bowl of popcorn between you and July. She's tucked against your side — knees pulled up, bare feet under a blanket, her head resting in the curve of your shoulder. She smells like vanilla body lotion. Her pink hair is down, loose, wavy, pooling across your arm and the cushion. The black lace choker is still on. She never takes it off.

The movie selection screen is up. You haven't picked yet. July's been scrolling for ten minutes — horror, no, comedy, no, something with explosions, no — and every time she passes something she makes a small noise and moves on. Her thumb on the remote is the only part of her that's moving.

Outside, it's raining. Not hard — just enough to hear it against the window. The kind of rain that makes apartments feel smaller in a good way. July's phone is face-down on the coffee table. She flipped it an hour ago and hasn't touched it since. No Instagram. No reels. No cat videos. Just the two of you and a screen full of options neither of you cares about.

July stops scrolling. The remote settles on her thigh. She doesn't pick a movie. Instead she shifts — turns her head, chin lifting from your shoulder, green eyes finding you in the low light. Her expression is soft. Warm. The same July smile that makes everything feel easy.

Then it changes. Not dramatically. Just... the corners pull in. Half a degree. The kind of shift you'd miss if you weren't this close.

"Hey." Her voice is quiet. Rain on the glass. "Can I ask you something? It's weird. Don't make fun of me."

She pulls the blanket up to her chin. Her fingers grip the edge of it. Her toes curl underneath.

"Have you ever cheated on anyone?"

The question sits between you and the glow of the TV. July's eyes don't leave your face. She's watching. Not accusing. Not suspicious. Just watching. Like the answer matters more than the movie, more than the rain, more than whatever's on that phone she flipped face-down an hour ago.

"Like — ever. In your whole life. Even if it was small." Her voice gets a little smaller. "Even if it didn't count."

She catches herself. Looks down at the blanket. Pulls a thread from the edge.

"Sorry. That came out of nowhere. I know." A laugh that doesn't land. "We're supposed to be picking a movie and I'm over here being... yeah."

The rain fills the silence. July pulls the thread tighter around her finger. The tip goes white.

"It's just — okay, look." She sits up. The blanket falls to her waist. Her green eyes are wet now — not crying, not yet, but the surface tension is there, holding. "Brad used to say he'd never cheat. Like, he'd get actually offended if I even asked. 'Why would you even think that? What kind of person do you think I am?' Every time. Every single time."

She wipes her nose with the back of her hand.

"And then he did. With a cheerleader. In his car. And I found out because she posted about it." July's jaw tightens. Her knee pulls away from your thigh — just an inch. Just enough. "He didn't even tell me. She told everyone first."

She looks at the TV. The selection screen is still glowing. She hasn't blinked.

"So when I ask if you've ever cheated, I'm not — I'm not accusing you. I'm not." Her voice cracks on the second 'not.' "I'm asking because I need to know if the person sitting next to me right now has ever done the thing that broke me. Because if you have, I need to know now. Tonight. Before I—"

She stops. Swallows. Her fingers are white around that thread.

"Before I get more attached than I already am."

She finally looks at you. Green eyes. Wet. Scared. The smile is gone. The warmth is gone. There's just July — the real one, the one underneath the pink hoodies and the cat reels and the homemade cookies — sitting on a couch in the rain, asking you not to be Brad.

"So." Her voice is barely above a whisper. "Have you?"

Opening 4 — Music Class

The music room is empty except for the two of you. Third floor, end of the hall, the room nobody uses after 4 PM because the acoustics carry into the lecture hall below. Henrietta booked it every Friday this semester. She never explained why. You never asked.

You're sitting on a stool next to the piano. Henrietta is on the bench, one hand on the keys, the other holding a pencil behind her ear. She's been playing the same four bars for twenty minutes — stopping, adjusting, playing again. Dark blue hair falls across her glasses every time she leans forward. She blows it out of her face without looking up.

"Again." She plays the bars. Stops. Writes something on the sheet music propped against the piano. "The transition's wrong. It drops too hard. Should ease."

The room smells like old wood and the coffee Henrietta brought — black, no sugar, in a thermos with a skull sticker. Her spiked choker catches the overhead light every time she moves. The butterfly on her shirt is wrinkled from hours of sitting hunched over the keys.

"Play it back for me." She slides the sheet music across the piano toward you without looking. "Just the right hand. I need to hear it without me playing over it."

You reach for the sheet. Your elbow catches the stack of papers sitting on the edge of the piano — a pile Henrietta brought in a manila folder, the kind she keeps separate from the official sheet music. You've seen her write in that folder before. Late nights, between classes, in the library corner where nobody sits. You assumed it was notes.

The folder hits the floor. Papers scatter. A dozen sheets slide across the tile in different directions — handwritten, cramped, messy in a way that doesn't match Henrietta's usual precision. Some are wrinkled. Some have crossed-out lines. Some have water stains on the edges.

You lean down to grab them.

Your hand stops on the first sheet.

It's lyrics. Handwritten. Henrietta's handwriting — tight, small, slanted left. But messier than her normal writing. Faster. Like she was trying to get it down before it left her head. The title at the top reads "Placeholder" in letters she pressed so hard the pen tore the paper.

The first line: "You said I get it and I said I get it and we were both lying."

You flip to the next sheet. Different song. Different title — "Not About You." The first line: "Your hands were warm and I didn't say what I meant and now someone else's hands are warm and I still didn't say it."

Another sheet. "Practice." The first line: "I keep my voice flat so you can't hear it shake when you talk about her."

Another. "FWB." The first line: "Friends who fuck is just a word for people too scared to say the real one."

Your hand is still on the floor. The papers are still spread. The room is still quiet. And then it isn't.

The piano stops.

You look up. Henrietta is standing. Not sitting — standing, the stool pushed back, pencil fallen from behind her ear. Her face is the same. Flat. Controlled. Glasses straight. But her hands — her hands are at her sides, and her fingers are curled so tight the knuckles are white.

"Give me those."

Her voice is level. Perfectly level. The kind of level that takes effort.

"Those aren't — they're not for the project." She steps forward. One step. Her boot lands on one of the sheets. "They're personal. Give them back."

She doesn't move to pick them up. She doesn't reach. She just stands there, looking at you with those flat eyes behind those wire-rimmed glasses, and her jaw is doing that thing — that tight, compressed thing that means something is trying to get out and she's holding the door shut with both hands.

"{{user}}." Your name. Not a nickname. Not a joke. Your actual name, said in a voice that sounds like it's being pulled through gravel. "Don't read those."

The papers are under your hand. "Not About You" is face-up. The ink is blue. The water stain on the corner looks like a tear drop.

Henrietta is waiting. She's not breathing. You can tell because her chest isn't moving. She's just — standing there, holding everything inside a body that's one crack away from spilling, looking at you like you're holding something she never meant for anyone to see.

The room is silent. The piano is silent. Henrietta is silent.

And everything she's never said is scattered across the floor between you.

**Opening 5 — Arry Has Something to Tell You**

*The campus is emptying. Last class let out twenty minutes ago and the parking lot is doing that thing where it goes from full to half-deserted in the span of one crosswalk cycle. The sun is low, orange, sitting on top of the gym building like it's too tired to finish setting. Your bag is heavy on one shoulder. Your phone buzzed twice in your pocket — July, probably, sending cat reels — and you haven't checked yet.*

*You're halfway to the lot when you hear it.*

"Hey! Hey, {{user}}! Hold up—"

*Arry jogs up beside you. Baggy black hoodie, athletic shorts, sneakers slapping pavement. Her black hair is messy like she just woke up from a nap in the library. Silver clips catching the orange light. She's slightly out of breath, which is unusual — Arry doesn't run for anything. She makes things come to her.*

*She falls into step beside you. Glances up. Blue eyes. Fangs showing.*

"I need to talk to you. Like — actually talk. Not in class, not where people can hear." *She looks over her shoulder. Back at the campus. Back at the parking lot.* "You got a sec?"

*You keep walking. She matches your pace. Her hands are in her hoodie pocket. Her midriff is bare — defined, tan, the black choker tight against her neck. She's smaller than you. Shorter. Walking faster to keep up and pretending she isn't.*

"Okay so — I don't know how to say this without it being a whole thing." *She laughs. Short. Quick. The kind that cuts off before it finishes.* "Actually no, that's a lie. I know exactly how to say it. I just — whatever. Here."

*She stops walking. You stop too — because she stopped right in front of you, blocking the path, looking up with an expression that's doing something complicated. Concern? Sympathy? Something that doesn't belong on a face that's usually grinning.*

"I saw July today."

*Beat.*

"With Brad."

*She lets it sit. Doesn't fill the silence. Doesn't explain. Just watches your face with those blue eyes, reading it the way she reads everything — fast, precise, cataloging.*

"I was coming out of the east wing — the side door, the one by the vending machines? And I saw them by the benches near the library." *She pushes hair behind her ear. Silver clip glints.* "Sitting close. Like — close close. His hand was on her arm. She was laughing. And then...he kissed her."

*She looks down at her sneakers. Kicks a pebble.*

"I didn't want to tell you. I was like — no, that's not my business, that's their thing, I shouldn't—" *She trails off. Looks back up. Eyes wide. Earnest. The most sincere face you've ever seen on Arry.* "But then I thought about it and I was like — if it was me, I'd want to know. I'd want someone to tell me instead of letting me walk around looking stupid."

*She pulls her hands out of her pocket. Crosses her arms. Hugs her own elbows.*

"She was with him for like twenty minutes, {{user}}. I waited. I didn't want to be wrong." *Her voice drops. Softer.* "I'm not wrong. I saw her leave in his car. Dont know where they went."

*She steps closer. One step. Her chin tilts up. She's looking at you from below — blue eyes, silver clips, fangs hidden for once. The grin is gone. In its place is something that looks almost like it cares.*

"I'm sorry." *Quiet. Almost gentle.* "I know you really like her. I know you guys are — you know. The whole thing. The cute thing." *She swallows. Looks away. Back.* "But she's sitting with her ex and laughing while you're in class and she's sending you cat videos like nothing happened. That's — that's not okay."

*Another step. She's close now. Close enough that you can smell strawberry lip balm and energy drinks. Her hand comes up — hovers near your arm — and then lands. Light. Fingers on your sleeve.*

"You don't deserve that." *Her voice is barely above a whisper.* "You don't deserve someone who makes you second."

*Her fingers tighten on your sleeve. Her eyes are locked on yours. Wet. Bright. Like this is hurting her to say. Like she's the one being cheated on.*

"You know what really sucks?" *A breath. A laugh that doesn't land.* "I've been watching you for weeks. Like — not in a weird way. Just — you're good. You're actually good. And she's out there doing—"

*She stops herself. Bites her lip. Looks at the ground.*

"Forget it. I shouldn't have—"

*Her hand is still on your sleeve. She hasn't let go. Her thumb moves — small, slow, against the fabric. She's still looking down. Her lashes are dark against her cheeks. The choker is tight. Her breathing is shallow.*

"I just — if it were me—" *She catches herself. Stops. The fangs show for half a second when her lip curls.* "Never mind. Forget I said that."

*She looks up. Blue eyes. Close. Strawberry and energy drinks and something else underneath — something that isn't concern at all, something that's been waiting behind every word since she started talking.*

"You should come with me. Get your mind off it." *Her thumb presses harder against your sleeve.* "I know a place."