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EMAILS I CANT SEND 💌 - lorenzo zurzolo x fem oc <3

word count: 3k.

notes: hi lovelies! the fic is on wattpad, just posting it here to see if it does better! pls vote the story! i'm posting a new chapter there today (wattpad link here)

part one here : 1

auroraavery just made a post!

auroraavery

liked by noorspeaks, madisonbeer, rolemodel and 1,2m more.

MY NEW ALBUM 'emails i can't send' IS OUT JULY 15th

+new song vicious out tonight!

thank u for being patient with me :')

i think it's worth the wait

presave in bio

comments:

noorspeaks i've heard it. i've cried. i've spiraled. you did that.

↳ auroraavery thank you for being here with me noorsie <3

siennavale every man who hurt you should be terrified.

↳ auroraavery and u know it

popcrave she just turned 19 in poland.

fans4roryupdates

we're not READY.

we're not OKAY.

we're FERAL.

viciousatmidnight me listening to track 3 pretending i didn't just text my ex

↳ auroraavery how do i repost a comment

↳ noorspeaks aurora.

↳ auroraavery what did i DO

jude.callahan pop princess

↳ auroraavery hi rome boy bring some pizza oui oui

↳ auroraavery my bad that was french

chapter one.

there's a very specific kind of panic that hits the night before an album drops.

it's like your soul's about to be uploaded to every streaming platform on earth, and all you can do is sit there—refreshing your own spotify page, doubting every lyric you ever wrote, and wondering if your high school ex is going to think track seven is about him. (it is. but he doesn't deserve the recognition.)

i'm curled up on my kitchen floor, wearing a hoodie that doesn't belong to me and clutching a glass of warm wine like it's my emotional support animal. my phone buzzes for the eighth time in under a minute. which means only one thing: the groupchat is alive.

little missies :p

noorsie

AURORA

don't panic

i know you're panicking

siennie

she's 1000% spiraling

rory

are u drinking wine on the floor again?

rorsie

yes

also it's not spiraling

its processing

noorsie

with chardonnay?

therapy is expensive

siennie

we're coming over

don't argue

i have hot cheetos!

and a face mask that smells like emotionally unavailable men.

dibs on your pink robe

i sigh, dramatically, like i'm starring in my own indie film. which, honestly, i might be.

i look at the clock. 10:42pm. vicious drops at midnight. the full album drops in less than three weeks. and tomorrow? the world hears everything I've been bottling up for the past two years. the heartbreaks. the half-texted paragraphs. the voice notes I was too scared to send.

and I have to pretend I'm fine.

i take a sip of wine and whisper, "this is fine," to no one, which is exactly when the front door swings open like it's been kicked by the FBI.

sienna struts in first—jeans too low, confidence too high, holding a bag of snacks like it's chanel. noor follows, wrapped in a massive sweater, a very specific kind of chaos behind her glasses.

"we brought the essentials," sienna says, tossing a bag onto the counter. "spicy carbs, emotional support skincare, and a playlist of bad decisions from 2017."

"and," noor adds, holding up her phone, "a tweet that says, 'rory avery is dropping her new album and my ex should be worried.' you're welcome."

they both stop when they see me. still on the floor. still in the hoodie. still very much not okay.

"you look like a woman who needs a forehead kiss and a legally mandated nap," sienna says, plopping down next to me.

"or a distraction," noor grins. "what if we invite chaos?"

I narrow my eyes. "chaos as in...?"

"men."

AHH!— oh. sorry. jumpscare.

"no," I deadpan.

"we could go out," sienna offers, like it's not nearly 11pm and I'm mentally curled in a ball. "or we could scroll jude's instagram. he posted a thirst trap in a turtleneck today. you should be aware."

jude. jude callahan. a mutual friend of ours, though more noor's chaos buddy than mine. he's the kind of man who flirts like he's quoting poetry, half in Italian, half in regret. he once told me I had "a tragic mouth" and I still don't know what that means—but I think about it a lot.

"jude's in rome right now," noor says, showing me her phone. "hanging out with that actor guy. what's his name? tall. looks like he doesn't text back but probably writes in a journal."

"lorenzo something?" sienna says. "zurzolo?"

I blink. "that's not a real name."

"it is. i googled."

noor scrolls. "they're filming something. or pretending to. i don't know, their posts are mostly blurry cigarettes and sad boy captions."

I shake my head. "he's probably one of those guys who thinks falling in love is a personality flaw."

"oh, so your type," sienna smirks.

i threw a cheeto at her. but she ate it.

"awh, sienn! that was supposed to poke ur eye!"

we spend the next twenty minutes dissecting song lyrics, listening to the bridge of vicious on loop, and making fake tweets about the album drop. noor and sienna argue over whether track nine will make people fall in love or break up. i think it might do both.

and just when I start to feel the tiniest bit grounded, my phone buzzes again. a dm. from jude.

jude.callahan

hey rorsie!

rome is overrated. kinda.

you'd love the espresso

also, my friend saw your album cover

he asked me who u were

should i tell him you're emotionally unstable or let him find out the fun way?

i pause.

i don't know why the message makes me pause, but it does.

maybe it's the idea of someone—someone i don't know, who doesn't know me—looking at that picture and asking who i am.

'but aurora, you're famous! you have photoshoots every month! meh meh meh!'– shush. its not like that.

either way, i pretend i don't care.

i crack my knuckles like i'm about to write the declaration of independence, and type:

auroraavery

hi judey! tell your friend i am a poet. a danger. a menace to emotionally weak men.

i need no one.

i've transcended the concept of man.

also, is he cute?

i'm asking for science

i throw my phone on the couch and scream into a pillow.

"you're unwell," sienna says from the floor, painting her nails some shade of blood red called 'unbothered but petty.'

"i'm deeply mysterious," i say, muffled.

noor, perched at my kitchen island with a mug of tea she didn't ask to make, raises her eyebrows. "you're five minutes away from texting your ex just to say 'lol.'"

"that's not true," i say.

my phone buzzes. i grab it.

jude.callahan

he's italian.

do with that what you will.

i throw my phone again.

"you are so loud without saying anything," noor says.

sienna snorts. "what do we think? does italian mean hot or emotionally detached?"

"yes," we both say.

we pass the time with a lot of nothing: watching old music videos, re-reading tweets about my album, googling ourselves (a mistake), and building a fake ranking system for who's most likely to cry when vicious drops.

noor bets sienna will cry first.

sienna says it'll be noor.

i say it'll be the man who inspired the song.

because that man deserves to cry.

deeply.

in public.

11:57pm.

i'm pacing. like. physically pacing. my phone's in my hand. the countdown is on. the app is open. i've chewed off half my thumbnail and am considering removing the song from the release entirely.

"what if it's too much?" i ask.

"it is," sienna says. "but that's the point."

"what if they hate it?"

"then we riot," noor shrugs. "but babe... they won't."

the three of us go quiet. not a normal quiet. a heavy, buzzing, electric kind of quiet.

11:59.

i'm going to combust.

midnight.

it drops.

the first note plays. and suddenly, the world is on fire.

"one year, ten thousand bad moments."

sienna gasps.

noor grabs her own chest like she's been personally victimized.

i sit down.

my phone explodes. notifications like bullets. twitter. texts. dms. even my mom sends a heart emoji and something that made me giggle.

mumma

❤️

hope this one isn't about your father.

someone tags me in a tiktok that says,

i told aurora about my ex and she wrote vicious because i didn't had the words.

another says, she said poetic rage. she said lipstick revenge. she said cry about it, king.

the stream counter ticks up.

the first tear falls—noor's.

"called it," sienna mutters, eyes suspiciously glassy.

i smile. just a little.

it's out there.

and i think i'm ready for what comes next.

maybe.

(hopefully.)

probably not.

i wake up to the sound of noor trying to butter toast with the blunt edge of a knife and cursing under her breath like the bread personally offended her.

my throat is dry. my mascara is under my eye. my song is on the radio.

it takes me three seconds to realize i'm not dreaming.

four to remember what day it is.

five to scream.

sienna bolts upright from my couch. noor drops the toast. i launch myself at my phone like i'm auditioning for a marvel movie. it's vibrating so violently i'm pretty sure it's going to catch fire.

i'm tagged in exactly 8,972 instagram stories.

my tiktok mentions are full of edits, crying girls in hoodies, and one video of a girl pouring wine into a cereal bowl with "vicious" playing in the background.

the damn vibes.

trending #3 worldwide: "vicious by rory avery"

trending #6: "aurora said cry about it king"

trending #12: "she wasn't subtle. we support that."

i sit down on the kitchen stool and blink.

"so... people like it," noor says carefully.

i look up from my phone, eyes wide. "people get it."

"you said 'you don't feel remorse, you don't feel the effects' and the world said me too, babe," sienna adds, stretching like she's not wearing my robe and stealing my post-breakup thunder.

someone texts me.

yslcowboy

ur sick for this song

i'm proud of u and also scared of u

you free for a rooftop thing tonight or are u too busy making men cry in traffic

i grin.

tucker's been my friend since before the eyeliner and heartbreak. we once got locked in a studio for 14 hours and came out with one half-decent demo and a 2am food poisoning incident. real bonding stuff.

rorsie

oh my god harry styles?

miss u already.

rooftop sounds sexy

send me the time!!

he sends back a voice note that's mostly him laughing and calling me unhinged. love language.

it's 10:30 a.m. and my phone has not stopped once.

people from high school are texting me like we didn't have beef in 2017. influencers i've never met are using "vicious" in their thirst trap reels. my cousin from naples sent me a video of her dog howling to the chorus. honestly? i respect the range.

i open my dms just to feel something and—

mistake.

huge mistake.

it's a war zone in there.

verified people. actors. rappers. a blue check from someone who dated a jenner and probably thinks he invented feminism. a tiktok boy with 7.8 million followers just sent, "u single?" with a vampire emoji.

i consider deleting the app and starting over as a florist.

but then—i see it.

jude.callahan

rorsss

your song came on in a rome cafe

lorenzo heard it

he didn't say anything

he just stared at the speaker.

do with that what you will

my stomach does something weird. flippy.

i don't know him. i don't fucking know him.

but somehow the image of a quiet boy in rome, listening to my voice come through a speaker like it's a secret, makes me sit up straighter.

just for a second.

"who's got your attention?" noor asks, mouth full of toast crumbs.

"no one," i lie.

(i lie very badly.)

sienna smirks. "you've got your album out and the italians are already acting up."

noor claps once. "queen behavior."

"and then rooftop later?" sienna asks.

"only if there's fun," i say.

only if i can pretend the world isn't looking at me too closely.

only if i don't think too hard about the boy in rome who didn't say anything.

by 1 p.m., my day has spiraled.

in a good way. a wild, surreal, maybe-i-need-meds kind of way.

sienna left after breakfast to "emotionally recover" from track eight. noor stole my hoodie and declared herself "in a post-vicious coma." and i have changed outfits three times trying to look effortlessly famous without screaming "please tell me i'm pretty."

i settle on baggy jeans, vintage sunglasses, and a tank top that says "this is me being normal" which feels like a lie but looks hot.

i walk out of my apartment to a wall of flashing lights and at least six men with cameras who say my name like they know me. one yells, "rory, who's 'vicious' about?" and another goes, "you made my girlfriend cry last night!"

"tell her i said sorry," i call back, slipping into my car.

the driver, max, gives me a look in the rearview mirror like you're not normal anymore, are you?

i shrug. "don't worry. i peaked in high school."

by 2:30 i'm sitting in a tiny studio with neon lights, a lapel mic clipped to my top, and a publicist whispering in my ear: "just keep it light. don't mention the ex. smile. you know the drill."

"i've been media trained within an inch of my life," i whisper back.

the interviewer is cute. too enthusiastic. clearly just heard "vicious" this morning and is pretending it didn't emotionally devastate her.

"aurora avery," she beams, "the girl of the moment."

i blink. "i've always wanted to be that."

"so 'vicious'... first of all, ouch. second of all, who hurt you?"

i laugh. "just say you relate and go."

she grins. "was there a specific line that you were scared to release?"

i pause.

"probably the one where i said, 'everyone thinks you're an angel,'" i say. "there's a certain amount of people who think he's an angel.. pretty obvious who the song is about."

she visibly gasps.

"bold," she says.

"true," i reply.

i leave the interview to find five texts from noor that say, "YOU BROKE THE INTERNET." and one from sienna that says, "you looked hot. the host wanted to cry. i approve."

my driver doesn't even ask where to now. he already knows.

rooftop. tucker.

by 6 p.m., i'm standing on a rooftop with a drink in hand, pretending not to notice the skyline turning gold behind me. tucker's already there, leaning against the railing like a tortured poet, wearing sunglasses at sunset and eating crumbl cookies.

"sorry," he says, hugging me. "my girl just dropped an album that ruined my trust issues. i'm in mourning."

"shut up," i laugh into his hoodie. "you love it."

"i do. i cried. and then i listened again. and cried better the second time."

i roll my eyes. "you're so dramatic."

"says the woman who dropped a diss track disguised as art."

we clink drinks. i sip. the sun dips lower. for a second, i forget about the cameras, the noise, the fact that half the world now thinks i'm out for emotional blood.

"you know you're trending on four apps, right?" tucker says. "and two group chats i'm in."

"i know," i sigh. "i saw a tweet that said 'aurora avery makes music for girls who could destroy you and look good doing it.'"

he snorts. "so true."

"someone else said i'm the reason their boyfriend apologized for something he hasn't done yet."

he raises his glass. "to preemptive apologies."

"tuck.." i said sighing. "do you think i'm unhinged," i ask, sipping the last of my drink and giving tucker my best innocent doe-eyed main character in a messy movie look.

"absolutely," he says, without hesitation. "but in a way that's marketable."

"thank you," i reply. "i worked hard on that."

"it shows. you've got main pop girl breakdown energy. very 'i write songs, not apologies.'"

"very 'i'm doing fine, actually, shut up.'"

"very 'you'll regret this once i'm wearing a hot outfit and posting cryptic captions.'"

we pause. then both say at the same time:

"'it's not about you.'"

and then we dissolve into full-body laughter.

tucker wipes fake tears. "i hate you."

"you love me."

"only because it's court-mandated."

i lean against the railing, staring out at the city. "you'd miss me if i vanished."

"i'd throw a parade."

"you'd spiral."

"i'd thrive."

"you'd be in my comments crying."

he turns, looks me dead in the eye. "you know what i'd comment?"

"what?"

"'this u?'"

he pulls out his phone and pretends to scroll.

you're evil."

"you wrote 'vicious' and released it on purpose. i learned from the best."

tucker stretches and sits on the ledge like a certified indie boy. "alright. real question."

"hit me."

"what's next?"

i exhale. look up at the sky like the answer might be up there, just hanging between clouds and delusion.

"i think i wanna disappear for a sec," i admit. "like. not forever. just long enough to feel normal again."

"normal's boring," he says.

"yeah, but it's also... quiet. no cameras. no dms. no strangers knowing what my heartbreak sounds like."

he's quiet for a beat. not in the way most people are, but in the way only people who get it can be. he's not trying to fix it. he's just there.

"you could come to mine for a few days," he offers. "lay low. write sad girl music in peace."

"and by peace you mean?"

"me waking you up at 2am to show you demos no one asked for."

i smile. "tempting."

"think about it," he says, hopping off the ledge. "we could make another song. you could break another man."

"i'm doing god's work," i nod solemnly.

"saint aurora of heartbreak. protect us."

we bow our heads in fake prayer.

the sun's almost gone now. golden hour fading into something a little colder, a little quieter. the rooftop is fuller, louder, but it still feels like just us up here.

"you're doing good, rory," tucker says suddenly, real serious.

i glance over. "you too."

we both pretend we didn't get a little soft for half a second.

he bumps my shoulder.

"alright. now let's go inside before someone recognizes you and starts crying about their ex. again."

----

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