COLD KARMA

The silence had weight. A cold, suffocating thing that wrapped around the house and settled between me and Bill like a storm waiting to break. Two weeks of this — of side-eyes and slammed doors, of our mom's confused glances and half-hearted attempts to fix whatever she thought was wrong.

But she didn't know.

No one did.

Not really.

And I wasn't about to tell her that the perfect Parker twins were currently in the middle of a cold war because I'd broken every rule we'd ever set for each other. Because I'd crossed a line so far, I couldn't even see it anymore.

The post was still up. I hadn't taken it down. Maybe I should have. Maybe I wanted to — but what difference would it make now? The damage was done.

I'd turned Nate's life into a headline. I'd let my own jealousy and anger take the wheel, and now the whole school knew something that wasn't mine to tell.

And worse? He hadn't even spoken to me since.

I wanted to tell myself I deserved the cold shoulder. That his silence was fair. But every time I saw Bill's face when we passed in the hall or when he barely looked at me across the dinner table, the guilt got heavier.

And then, finally — the storm broke.

It happened in our room, late at night, when the house was too quiet and I thought maybe we'd keep this dance of silence going forever. But then Bill's door slammed open, and there he was.

Furious.

"You know what, Billie? I'm done."

I froze, my phone slipping from my hand onto my bedspread. "What—"

"This," he cut me off, motioning between us. "This weird, silent-treatment thing? It's over. We're talking. And you're gonna listen."

I swallowed hard. "Bill, I—"

"No. You don't get to talk first. Not this time." His voice shook, and my stomach twisted with it. "You promised me, Billie. You promised me you wouldn't write about me, or my team, or anyone close to me. And then you wrote that post — about Nate. About yourself. And what happened?"

I didn't answer. I couldn't.

Bill didn't wait for one.

"You outed him," he said, his voice breaking. "You turned his life into a headline, and for what? To save your own name? To make sure no one thought you were the sad girl chasing after him?"

My chest ached. "I didn't mean—"

"It doesn't matter what you meant!" Bill shouted, his face red. "What matters is what you did."

I wanted to cry. But crying wouldn't fix this. Nothing would.

"I'm sorry," I whispered.

Bill laughed — harsh and humorless. "You're sorry?" He shook his head. "You think that fixes this?"

"No." My voice cracked. "But I don't know what else to say."

"Maybe don't say anything," he snapped. "Maybe just sit in what you did for a minute. Because while you were busy protecting your own image, you didn't stop to think about what this would do to him."

I wiped at my eyes. "I didn't… I didn't want this."

"But you did it anyway."

Silence stretched between us — and then Bill dropped the bomb.

"Thank you, though," he said, his voice suddenly cold. "For making it so easy for him to finally ask me out."

The air left my lungs. "What?"

"Yeah." Bill's smile didn't reach his eyes. "We're together now. Taking it slow. But, you know, it's funny — you were so angry about him liking me that you didn't even stop to think about what you were destroying in the process."

I stared at him, my heart breaking in ways I didn't even know were possible.

"And you know what's worse?" Bill's voice softened. "I don't even know if I can forgive you for it."

The door closed behind him with a quiet click.

And for the first time since this all started — I realized the real cost of being the Pink Savage.

It felt just like hell. And it hurt like karma

*-*

The house was too quiet. The kind of quiet that makes your skin itch because you know something's coming. And after what Bill had just dropped on me, I wasn't sure I could take anything else.

But life — and my mother — clearly didn't care.

By the time I finally dragged myself downstairs, feeling raw and empty and like I'd just been through a war I'd lost spectacularly, she was waiting.

At the kitchen table. Arms crossed. Face calm — too calm.

Bill was already there, slouched in a chair, his jaw tight and his eyes fixed on the table like it had personally offended him.

"Sit," Mom said, her voice leaving no room for argument.

I sat.

For a long, excruciating moment, she didn't speak. Just looked between us, and I swear I could feel every ounce of disappointment radiating off her.

Finally, she broke the silence.

"I don't know what this is all about," she began, her voice even. "And honestly, I don't care."

My stomach twisted.

"Maybe I care a little," she amended, her eyes narrowing. "Because when my kids stop speaking to each other and start slamming doors, I tend to notice. And when I happen to overhear bits and pieces of some very concerning things—" Her voice sharpened. "—I start to care a lot."

Bill shifted beside me, but neither of us spoke.

"Now, I'm not gonna force you to tell me everything. You're almost adults — God help me — and you deserve some privacy." Her gaze hardened. "But what I do know is that whatever's going on between you two? It needs to stop."

My throat felt tight. "Mom—"

"Let me finish."

I snapped my mouth shut.

She sighed, rubbing a hand over her forehead like we were giving her an actual headache. "Billie, you've been locked up in your room like you're in some kind of self-imposed exile. Bill, you've been stomping around this house like you're ready to punch a hole through a wall. And I'm tired of it."

Bill finally looked up. "It's not that simple—"

"It never is," she interrupted, her tone softening just a little. "But you two used to have each other's backs. You were a team. What happened?"

Neither of us answered.

But my silence felt heavier. Because I knew the answer.

And so did Bill.

Our mom watched us for a long moment, then sighed again. "I'm not gonna fix this for you. That's your job. But I am gonna make one thing clear." Her voice turned sharp again, cutting through the air like a knife. "Whatever this is? You fix it. Because I will not have my kids tearing each other apart under my roof."

We both nodded, but it felt like a hollow promise.

"Good," she said, standing up. "Now clean this mess up. Both of you."

And with that, she was gone — leaving us alone in the aftermath.

For a long time, neither of us spoke.

Then Bill stood up, his chair scraping against the tile. "You heard her," he said, his voice cold. "Fix it."

And just like that, I was alo

ne again.

But this time, the silence felt so much worse because honestly i have no idea on how things can be fixed.