The silence that followed Mary's departure from the rooftop wasn't just an absence of sound—it was a storm waiting for ignition. A thick, poisonous calm that smothered every breath I took. It was the kind of silence that didn't rest. It lurked. It watched. It evolved.
For three days, Mary disappeared from everything. She wasn't absent—she was erased.
Her seat in class, once a hub of whispers and snorts during boring lectures, became a haunting void. Her giggles that usually bounced off the tiled walls of the hallway like playful ghosts? Vanished. Her WhatsApp profile—blank. Her Instagram, dark. Twitter, dead. Snapchat? The streaks were broken. It was like the universe had swallowed her whole… or worse, like she'd crawled inside herself, ready to explode.
But she saw me. I knew she did.
Every time I posted something—no matter how meaningless, no matter how filtered—she was the first viewer. No comments. No likes. Just that subtle seen by 1 sitting like a stone in my stomach.
And then, like a gunshot in a church, it came.
"Snakes."
Just that. One word. One story. No tag, no image, no need. Everyone knew.
The reaction was instant. My inbox became a riot scene.
• "Is she talking about you???"
• "WTF did you do to Mary??"
• "You stole her man?! Nooo Chelsea, say it ain't so!"
I didn't respond. I couldn't. What could I say?
That it was a mistake?
That I didn't mean for any of this?
That I didn't go looking for him—that he came to me?
But those truths didn't matter anymore. Because perception had replaced reality. And in perception, I was Judas in lip gloss.
Then came the pictures.
First, a blurry shot of the rooftop. Me in his arms. A bouquet of red roses wilting under the dying sunset. His lips grazing mine. The infamous key—dangling from my pinky like fate's final insult.
I remember feeling cold—like someone had dunked me in ice and left me to shiver in shame. Who took them? I hadn't seen anyone that day. Was someone hiding? Recording? Watching us kiss while I thought the world had frozen in romantic wonder?
I confronted him.
His voice crackled over the phone like static wrapped in guilt. "I don't know who took them, Chelsea. I swear, I deleted everything. I told you that. Why would I ruin us like that?"
I wanted to scream. I wanted to believe him. But his voice—it shook. It shook.
"Did you show anyone our messages?" I asked, teeth clenched.
"Of course not," he snapped, quick and sharp. "What kind of guy do you think I am?"
I didn't answer. Because in that moment, I realized—I didn't know what kind of guy he was anymore.
And then… he vanished.
Blocked. Ghosted. Erased.
His socials? Deleted or locked down. His phone? "Unavailable." His friends? Suddenly tight-lipped. Like someone had pulled a blackout curtain over his life and left me in the dark.
By Friday, the whole school was a circus, and I was the main act.
The cafeteria, once my runway, turned into a courtroom. Every whisper, every glance, every snicker felt like a dagger dipped in acid. Even the teachers seemed to know.
At the weekly assembly, Principal Vincent walked to the podium with his usual God-complex swagger, adjusted his microphone, and cleared his throat—a sound we'd all come to dread.
"There are things," he said, slow and ominous, "circulating within this campus that do not align with the values we stand for. Things… shameful. Disgraceful. And we will not tolerate them."
Then he paused. Just enough to let the weight of the moment crush everyone's lungs.
His eyes scanned the student body like searchlights. And then they locked on me.
Dead center.
No name. No accusation. But I felt it in my spine.
Shame crawled up my neck. My vision swam. I sank into the nearest seat like my knees could no longer pretend to be bones. I heard the girls behind me gasp. One murmured, "It's about Chelsea, right?"
I couldn't even cry.
I just… went numb.
When the assembly ended, I ran. Literally ran. Into the closest bathroom, locked the stall, and tried to breathe.
Then it buzzed.
My phone. Of course.
New Message Request.
No profile photo. No bio. No name.
Just one message.
"You thought that was bad? Wait till they see the rest."
My heart stopped.
The rest?
I yanked open my gallery. Scrolled. Then tapped on the locked folder.
Gone.
Every. Single. One.
Those pictures. The ones I swore would stay private. The ones I only ever sent him. The ones I never even looked at again because just having them was risky enough.
Gone.
Then—ping.
AirDrop request.
From "MARY'S REVENGE 📸."
Three files. No preview.
My thumb hovered. I didn't accept.
But I didn't need to.
Because moments later, my class gossip group exploded.
Photos. Of me.
Unfiltered. Uncensored.
Every inch of my body that I'd once trusted someone to keep sacred—exposed.
I screamed.
For the first time, I screamed like something inside me had finally broken loose. A wounded, primal sound that filled the entire restroom and echoed off the walls.
But it wasn't just fear.
It was rage.
Pure. Blinding. Rage.
Not at Mary. Not even at him.
At me.
Because deep down, I knew. I saw the signs. I saw how his attention turned to obsession. I saw the glint in Mary's eyes when she caught us. I heard the whispers long before the screenshots. And yet… I stayed. I smiled. I believed.
I let them in.
I opened myself to love, lust, and lies—and now the whole world could see what that cost me.
My phone fell from my hand.
I slid to the floor, shaking, broken, but alive.
Because in that moment, I knew something else.
This wasn't the end.
They thought they'd buried me.
They thought this scandal would be the full stop at the end of my story.
But I wasn't a sentence.
I was a whole damn novel.
And they'd just turned the page.