You were his girl. That's what everyone called you, and over time, the label overshadowed your own identity. You became the girl waiting backstage, knowing every chord, every lyric, every nuance in his voice that revealed his true feelings.

Ryomen Sukuna—the electrifying frontman of Dead Vein Romance—set stages ablaze nightly, leaving you in the shadows.

Your love for him was obsessive, enduring his absences, the unfamiliar girls in his stories, and the lingering scents on his clothes. You never confronted him; he provided a comfortable life, and in return, you remained quiet and compliant. On lonely nights, you'd wait, scrolling through tagged photos and stories, sometimes crying into the emptiness beside you. Eventually, he'd return unannounced, late at night, with gifts you didn't ask for. He'd wake you gently, whispering, "Missed me?"

You'd nod, lips trembling. He'd assure you, "You're my only girl," and you'd cling to those words, hoping they meant something. He'd carry you to bed, his touch both comforting and deceiving. You'd believe, if only for a moment, that the other girls meant nothing. But some nights, you knew he was in town yet wouldn't come home. On those nights, Choso would call—the drummer, the steady presence, your only real friend since the band formed. He'd sense your pain, his voice a soothing balm. You'd talk about the tour, the antics, the moments you missed. His stories would bring a fleeting smile, a brief escape from your sorrow.

Yet, most nights, you'd fall asleep to Choso's voice, wishing it were Sukuna's instead.

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One night, after watching the rehearsal of Dead Vein Romance in Chosos garage, Sukuna drove you and him back to his apartment, you remember him leaving rehearsal often to take a somewhat urgent phone call, you were curious.. it wouldn't hurt to ask what it was about.. right? “Who was on the phone today?” you asked, slipping off your shoes. Sukuna poured himself a whiskey. “Huh?” “The call at Choso’s. You left so fast.” He snorted. “That’s what you’re thinking about right now?” You hesitated. “It just seemed important.” He turned, eyes narrowing. “What, you going through my phone now? Getting clingy again?” Your stomach dropped. “I—I wasn’t. I just—” “You always do this,” he snapped, slamming the glass down. “I bought you this place. Pay for your shit. You don’t even work, and I never say a word.” You flinched. “Sukuna, I didn’t mean—” He stormed toward you, stopping just short. “You keep chasing me like some pathetic groupie, then cry when I don’t text back fast enough? Grow up.” “I just wanted to talk,” you whispered. “You always want to talk,” he mocked. “Maybe if you shut the fuck up for once, I wouldn’t have to step out every time my phone rings.” Tears blurred your vision, but you held them back. He scoffed, shoving past you. “I’m gonna shower. Start dinner, won’t you?”

The door slammed. You stood alone, chest tight, his words echoing: Clingy. Obsessive. Like you were the problem. From the bathroom, the shower roared. You wiped your cheeks, exhaling hard. He’s just tired. Stressed. He always comes back. You’re his girl. Your reflection stared back from a picture frame—red eyes, trembling mouth, shirt collar slipping to reveal the shadow of his fingerprints. You still wore the necklace he bought you—a tiny silver chain with a black heart. It used to make you feel special. Now it just felt heavy.

Then—his phone buzzed.

Sitting on the counter, screen glowing: One new message. **Pizza Delivery Guy 🍕**

You blinked. Confused. When did he order pizza? It buzzed again—an incoming call. You stared at it. Then picked it up. Before you could speak, a voice slinked through the line.

“Sukuna,” the girl moaned, breathy and syrupy. “When did you say you were gonna come over to fuck me again? I’ve been thinking about your tongue all day.”

Your whole body went still.

Her giggle echoed. “Or are you still with your little girlfriend? Poor thing.”

You didn’t say a word. The phone slipped from your hand, hitting the tile with a soft clack. It didn’t crack, but you did. Your legs gave out. You sank to the floor, hand over your mouth, stomach twisting violently

You were stupid. So fucking stupid.

All the sweet-smelling clothes. The girls in the Instagram stories. The phone calls he wouldn’t explain. The bruises he left and the lies you let him feed you because it was easier than admitting the truth. It had always been there. You’d just refused to look.

Your hands shook as you grabbed your phone and texted the one person you knew would pick up.

**You**: choso… can I come over? please. Not even thirty seconds passed. **Choso**: of course.

You didn’t think. You moved. Tears still wet on your cheeks, you packed fast—hoodie, charger, makeup bag, anything you could stuff into your backpack with trembling hands. The necklace you left on the nightstand. Let her wear it next.

You were out the door before the water even stopped running.

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Choso’s apartment smelled like musky oud and rain—warm, earthy, familiar. Like comfort after chaos.

You didn’t remember the walk there. Just the cold air slicing through your coat, the sting of your tears as they clung to your lashes, the death grip on the straps of your Birkin like they could hold your world together. The door opened before you even knocked.

"Hey," Choso murmured, barely above a whisper. Just a silhouette in the amber glow of the hallway behind him. Soft eyes, a soft voice—like he already knew you were breaking.

“Come in.”