Good riddance update when ?
Good Riddance. (Chapter 3)
singer!reader x drew!starkey
Warnings:Angst,Explicit language, Emotional abuse, idk lol
The rehab center smelled like antiseptic and faint vanilla, a sharp contrast to the chaos that had once defined your life. Winter sunlight streamed through the blinds, slanting across the pale green walls. You sat cross-legged on the narrow bed, a notebook open across your knees. Your pen hovered, indecisive, over the page.
October 2022 had been dark, suffocating. Now, it was February 2023. Four months of strict routines, therapy sessions, and quiet reflection had chipped away at the numbness. You’d eaten, slept, cried, screamed, and faced the jagged edges of yourself you’d ignored for too long. And somewhere between group sessions and solitary walks around the rehab courtyard, you began to write.
Music had become the thing keeping you tethered to yourself. At first, it was just scribbled lines in a notebook: fragments of thoughts too sharp to carry silently. Then came chords, rough melodies played on the small donated keyboard in the common room, and for once you were grateful your mom forced the guitar and piano lessons— cause now? It came naturally. You hummed, tapped, scratched out lyrics, and slowly the pieces began to form something that felt like yours. Good Riddance, you’d started calling it—not because you’d forgiven, not because you were over it—but because it was yours, and you were finally reclaiming it.
Three days before the OBX Season 3 premiere, you stepped out of rehab into the cold winter air, lungs filling with sharp, clean freedom. The world hadn’t waited for you. Drew had been calling and texting everyone like a maniac, wanting updates. Odessa was still around, somehow. And on social media, rumors had started leaking: people speculating you’d been in rehab, guessing at why and how, and spreading theories that you and Drew weren’t close anymore—all painting half-truths and gossip. But you were ready, finally, to step back into it on your own terms.
When you got to your apartment, your mom was at the door, smiling faintly and clearly relieved. “They’re here,” she said, stepping aside to let the cast in.
Madison, Madelyn, Lacy, Rudy, Chase, and JD walked in, each carrying small bouquets of flowers. Madison nudged you with a grin. “We come bearing flowers and unsolicited life advice. Your mom let us in, so you don’t get to say no.”
You rolled your eyes but let a small, genuine smile tug at your lips. “Yeah, okay.”
Madelyn was first, pulling you into a tight hug. “Y/N… it’s so good to see you,” she murmured, holding you a little longer than necessary.
Lacy followed, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “You look… okay. Better than okay, actually.”
Rudy leaned in next, handing you a small bouquet of bright pink tulips. “These are for surviving. For making it here,” he said quietly.
Chase crossed his arms but shook his head and smiled, holding out a few daisies. “Don’t let the chaos get to you. We’ve got your back.”
JD was last, awkwardly stepping forward with a small bunch of wildflowers he’d clearly grabbed on the way over. “Uh… hi. We missed you,” he said, voice soft. “And… yeah, these are for you too.”
Madison stepped in again, squeezing your shoulder. “We missed you. Don’t even try to act like you didn’t.”
You let yourself relax into the group hug, the tight, chaotic comfort of your friends grounding you. Your mom stayed at the edge of the room, quietly watching, letting you have this moment.
Finally, you stepped back, holding the flowers in your hands, and let out a shaky breath. “Thanks… all of you.”
“You don’t even have to say it,” Madelyn said, voice light but firm. “We just want you to be okay. That’s it.”
Once the hugs and flowers were done, the conversation shifted naturally. Rudy rolled his eyes. “So, Drew’s been driving everyone insane. Blowing up everyone's phone, DMs, asking where you are. The dude’s obsessive.”
“And Odessa?” you asked flatly.
“She’s still around, sometimes,” Chase added, shrugging. “Not surprising. Also… people online are starting to piece stuff together. TikTok rumors, dumbass instagram pages . A bunch of people somehow got the scoop that you were in rehab. Everyone’s speculating that you and Drew aren’t even close anymore.”
JD leaned against the counter, frowning. “Honestly, it’s been exhausting trying to keep him from losing it completely. But we’ve got you. That’s what matters.”
Your jaw tightened. “Of course. Just fuckin’ great.”
Madelyn leaned forward, tone gentle. “We just want you to have a plan. Like… if Drew keeps texting or if people keep talking, what’s your move? You can’t ignore it forever. And you know those nosy reporters are gonna be up your ass with the invasive questions at the premier”
“I just… need a few days,” you said, voice low. “To breathe. To process. To… think. I mean for gods sake i just got out.”
Lacy reached out, squeezing your hand. “Then do that. No one’s rushing you. Just… be careful, yeah? Don’t let him or the online noise pull you back in.”
Madison smirked. “Basically, stay off your phone for a week. Let the chaos die down before you even peek.”
You nodded, feeling a small weight lift. Music was still private. Good Riddance was your world, your therapy, your revenge and release all wrapped in chords and lyrics. Not a single soul besides you knew it existed, and you'd like to keep it that way. For now.
The next morning, sunlight spilled through your blinds, cutting across the floor and landing on the small keyboard in the corner. You rolled over, eyes still half-closed, and realized: life was… moving again. Fast. Loud. Messy. Exactly the way it had before rehab—but now you were ready to meet it on your own terms.
Your phone buzzed nonstop: notifications from every social media platform known to mankind. You ignored it all, rolling your eyes as you threw on a tank with some random sweatpants for a fitting.
By the time you got to the designer studio for fittings, the energy was insane, and something you had forgotten despite it being pretty routine. Mirrors everywhere, racks of clothes, and music pumping from hidden speakers. Some of the cast was there, trying on looks from the same designer as you. Madison twirled in a sequin dress, JD made a face at his tailored jacket, and Lacy was debating between heels. Your manager handed you a gorgeous outfit. And then you noticed him. Drew.
He was awkwardly leaning against a clothing rack, arms crossed, trying to look casual but failing spectacularly. He was there because the designer had fittings for all the cast, some sharing similar looks, and apparently he had to be present—or at least his publicist had insisted.
Your stomach tightened for a second, but you focused on yourself, or at least trying to. “Right,” you muttered to yourself. “Just here for clothes. Just fashion. Not… him.”
Rudy nudged you, holding up a pair of shoes. “You’re overthinking it. Look at you, ready to slay. He snorts while trying to be positive. "Premiere’s in two days. The fans and social media aren’t gonna kill you—well, not yet.”
JD glanced at Drew, who was awkwardly fiddling with a sleeve. “Yeah, he’s… here. But don’t worry about it. Just do you.”
You rolled your eyes, but a small smirk crept in. “Thanks, JD.”
As the designer called people over for final adjustments, Drew finally stepped forward, clearing his throat. “Hey,” he said softly, like he wasn’t sure he even had permission to talk to you.
“Hey,” you replied evenly, voice calm but sharp, eyes narrowing slightly. “Fitting.”
“Yeah… just trying to figure this out,” he muttered.
“Figure what out?” you asked, tone even, controlled. “How to look like you actually belong here? Or how to pretend like none of this—us—ever happened?”
Drew flinched, voice low. “Y/N… I—”
“You don’t get to start with excuses,” you cut him off, calm but with an edge. “Not now. Not here.”
“I… I didn’t know you’d be here,” Drew said, voice tight. “I just—this is the designer’s thing. I have to—”
“You didn’t know?” you echoed, voice almost amused in its coldness. “Or you didn’t care. Honestly, I’m not sure which is worse.”
Drew swallowed hard. “I care. I do. I just—look, I messed up. I know. I shouldn’t even be here—”
“You shouldn’t be here,” you said softly, calm but venom in every syllable. “But you are. So we’re gonna deal with it. You, me, and this stupid, perfect-fitting outfit.”
He let out a shaky laugh. “I… I don’t even know what to say.”
“You can start by shutting up,” you said, eyes locked on his, offended at his laugh. what makes him think anything is even remotely funny? “Or you can try actually understanding what it’s like to be me. Calm on the outside, fucking hurting on the inside. You? You wouldn’t get it.”
“I don’t…” he trailed off, voice faltering. “I wish I did. I really do.”
“Yeah, you wish,” you said, calm, bitter. “But wishing doesn’t fix anything, Drew. Doesn’t erase months. Doesn’t undo everything. Doesn’t stop people from seeing this—seeing me—and wondering why I even let you in my life in the first place.”
Drew’s jaw tightened. “I know I don’t deserve this. I know I don’t deserve you.”
You let a thin, tight smile slip through, almost cruel. “Yeah. You don’t. And yet… here you are. Watching me, pretending like nothing’s wrong. But I see you. Every little bit of guilt. Every little bit of—”
“Stop,” he said, voice quiet but sharp. “Please. Don’t make me feel worse than I already do.”
You held his gaze, calm but deadly. “You should feel worse. You should feel everything. Because I’ve been feeling it. Every day. And unlike you, I’ve had to sit with it, alone.”
Drew’s jaw tightened, his eyes dropping for a second before meeting yours again. “Y/N… I know. I know what I did. I saw what you went through… in rehab. I didn’t understand it then, but I see it now. And I… I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry.”
You let the words hang between you, calm but seething. The room felt smaller, every other person fading into the background. His apology didn’t fix anything. It didn’t erase the months of pain. But it was a crack—small, jagged, and dangerous—in the armor you’d built around yourself.
The designer clapped their hands. “Okay, everyone, let’s get these outfits fitted perfectly. Y/N, your outfit—let’s see it with the shoes.”
You didn’t move immediately. You just looked at him, calm, simmering, letting the weight of your words hang between you before finally stepping toward the fitting area. Drew followed, silent, the guilt heavy in his chest, unable to speak without setting off another avalanche.
As you slipped into the outfit and the cast buzzed around, chaos, raised voices—despite all that, and the stupid interaction with the man who put you through hell, you felt a strange sense of calamity, grounded in the small chaos around you. You were back, alive, present—and for the first time in months, ready to face the world, the premiere, and yes… even Drew.
By late afternoon, the fittings finally wound down. The cast lounged around the studio, scrolling through their phones, joking about outfit choices and the inevitable flood of TikTok and IG posts that would hit later. Drew lingered awkwardly, fiddling with his jacket, clearly unsure if he should stay or leave. You kept your focus forward, subtly narrowing your eyes at him but letting your mind drift to your real world: the music waiting for you at home.
Rudy, Madison, and Lacy waved goodbye, JD giving you a thumbs-up. “You’re gonna kill it Y/N” he said with a grin.
“Thanks,” you muttered, already thinking about the keyboard, guitar and the notebook waiting for you.
By the time you stepped into your apartment that night, the city lights were glowing, street noise faint through the windows. The flowers from the cast still sat on the counter, a small reminder that people still cared. You kicked off your boots, tossed your bag down, and sat at the keyboard, fingers hovering over the keys.
The apartment was quiet. Your mom had gone to bed hours ago, leaving you with nothing but the soft hum of the heater and your thoughts. You pulled out your notebook, flipping to a fresh page, and stared at the blank space for a moment. Then, slowly, the melody of your first song “Best” came to you, sharp and biting and real.
Chords followed, awkward at first, then smoother, filling the small room with sound. You hummed, tapped beats on your desk, tried different melodies, rewrote lyrics. Hours passed unnoticed as you crafted the skeleton of your first song, letting every thought, every memory, every frustration and heartbreak pour out into the music.
This was yours. Private. Honest. Untouchable. Good Riddance had begun.
For the first time in months, the world outside—the rumors —were irrelevant. All that mattered was the music, the chords, the lyrics, and the raw, perfect mess of your feelings turned into art. And as the first notes of “Best” lingered in the apartment, you felt a spark you hadn’t felt in a long time: purpose, power, and maybe even hope.
It was only a matter of time.
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