Strings hung in tangled loops, a spiderweb of metal catching light and trembling slightly, as if even the wreckage still remembered vibration.
For a second I couldn’t breathe.
My mind refused the image. It tried to turn it into something else. A dream. A prank. A hallucination caused by stress and lack of sleep.
Then Tyler looked at me and laughed.
It wasn’t a nervous giggle. It was bright, careless amusement.
“It broke,” he said, and lifted the neck slightly as if to show me proof. “Your guitar was fake.”
The room felt like it tilted.
My hands started shaking, not dramatically, just an uncontrollable tremor that made my fingers twitch as if they wanted to grab and fix and rewind time. Heat rushed into my face, then drained, leaving me cold and lightheaded.
“Tyler,” I managed, and my voice didn’t sound like mine. It sounded thin. Strained. “Why did you do this?”
He stood proud, chin up, shoulders squared. No fear. No apology. His eyes were bright, almost excited, like he’d completed a mission and expected applause.
Behind him, in the doorway, Derek stood frozen.
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