Episode 1
Christiana stood outside Marc's dorm building, her phone glowing with three unanswered texts and two missed calls from earlier that day.
The cold bit through her jacket, but she barely registered it. He had been distant for weeks, vague excuses stacking up like cards in a crooked tower. She was done waiting for explanations.
She pushed through the entrance and climbed the stairs to the third floor. Her boots made soft thuds against the linoleum, steady and deliberate. When she reached his door, she paused only to pull the spare key from her pocket. Marc thought he had been so careful, leaving his keys on the coffee table that afternoon three months ago while he showered. He never noticed one going missing. He never thought to look.
The lock turned smoothly. She stepped inside without knocking.
The common area was dark, but light spilled from the cracked bedroom door across the hall. She heard movement. Breathing. The kind that came fast and uneven. Her jaw tightened as she moved forward, each step measured and silent. She reached the doorway and stopped.
Marc was on the bed with his roommate, Tyler. Their clothes were scattered across the floor. Neither of them had heard her come in.
Christiana did not gasp. She did not stumble back or make a sound. Instead, she pulled her phone from her pocket, opened the camera, and pressed record. She angled it carefully, making sure both faces were visible in the frame. The lighting was good enough. Clear enough.
She let it run for ten seconds. Then she stopped the recording, slipped the phone back into her pocket, and crossed her arms.
"Interesting," she said.
Both of them froze. Marc twisted around so fast he nearly fell off the bed. His face went white, then red, then white again. Tyler grabbed a blanket and pulled it over himself, his eyes wide and frantic.
"Christiana—" Marc started, his voice cracking.
She held up a hand. "Don't."
He closed his mouth. She walked further into the room and sat down in the desk chair near the wall, crossing one leg over the other. Her expression was calm, almost bored. She looked at Marc, then at Tyler, then back at Marc.
"Three months," she said. "That's how long you've been acting strange. I thought maybe you were stressed. Maybe school was getting to you. I gave you space. I waited." She tilted her head. "I was patient."
Marc scrambled to pull on his jeans, his hands shaking. "It's not what you think."
"It's exactly what I think." Her voice was flat. "And I don't care that it's him. I care that you lied."
Tyler looked like he wanted to disappear into the mattress. Marc stood there, half-dressed, his mouth opening and closing like he was drowning.
"You could have told me," Christiana continued. "You could have been honest. Instead, you made me look like an i***t. You let me sit there at dinner with your friends last week, smiling, playing the supportive girlfriend, while you two were doing this."
"I didn't mean for it to happen," Marc said weakly.
"You didn't mean to sleep with him? Or you didn't mean to get caught?"
He flinched.
She leaned back in the chair, studying him. "Here's what's going to happen. You're going to tell everyone we broke up because you needed to figure yourself out. You're going to say it was mutual. You're going to be respectful. And if you try to spin this any other way, if you make me out to be the bad guy, I'll make sure that video gets seen by everyone you know."
"You wouldn't," Tyler said, his voice barely a whisper.
She looked at him for the first time since sitting down. "Try me."
Marc's face crumpled. "Why are you doing this?"
"Because you made a choice," she said. "And choices have consequences."
"I loved you," he said, and his voice broke on the last word.
"No," she said quietly. "You loved the idea of me. You loved how I made you look. But you didn't love me enough to be honest." She stood up, smoothing her jacket. "And that's the part that matters."
Marc stared at her, tears starting to well in his eyes. Tyler looked away, pulling the blanket tighter around himself. Christiana turned toward the door, satisfied that the point had been made. She had said what needed to be said. She had taken back control.
Then her phone rang.
She pulled it out, glancing at the screen. Unknown number. She almost ignored it, but something made her answer.
"Hello?"
"Is this Christiana Anderson ?" a woman's voice asked.
"Yes."
"This is Officer Karen Melrose with the state police. I'm calling about your parents."
Christiana's hand tightened around the phone. "What about them?"
There was a pause. Too long. Too careful.
"There's been an accident," the officer said. "I'm very sorry, but they didn't survive. We need you to come to the hospital to identify them."
The words hit her like a physical blow, but she did not move. Did not blink. Her mind went blank, then too full, then blank again. She heard the officer still talking, saying something about a collision and highway patrol and next of kin, but the words blurred together into meaningless noise.
Behind her, Marc was saying something. She could hear his voice, distant and muffled, asking if she was okay.
She opened her mouth to respond, to say something sharp and cutting, to tell him this changed nothing. But what came out instead was laughter. Short, breathless, uncontrollable.
Then it stopped.
Her fingers went slack. The phone slipped from her hand and hit the floor with a dull crack.
