Monday arrived thick with humidity and dread.

The sky looked like it was holding its breath, clouds swollen and heavy, like it might rain or maybe just collapse altogether. I should’ve known something was coming. My stomach had been churning since the second I woke up. I didn’t bother with mascara — it felt like asking for a breakdown.

I got to school early, or so I thought. The hallway was already packed, the kind of clustered mess that usually only meant two things: fire drill or scandal. I pulled my hoodie tighter and tried to slip past the crowd by the main bulletin board. At first, I figured they were checking prom court results or fighting about who had the better campaign posters.

And then I heard my name.

Not murmured. Not gossiped. Just… spoken. Clearly. Boldly. Like it belonged in public now.

My hands went cold instantly.

I pushed through the crowd, each step louder in my chest than it was on the floor. Students barely moved. Some looked at me with raised eyebrows, some didn’t even bother to look away when I caught them staring. My breath was already shallow by the time I made it to the front.

And then I saw it.

ZOE TORRES & JAXON REED: SECRET COUPLE? 10 DAYS TO BETRAYAL.

The headline was printed in bold, all-caps, red. Not the school’s burgundy. Not tasteful. Just bright, bloody red — the kind that wasn’t chosen by accident.

My name. Jaxon’s. Together.

Madison’s name sat neatly underneath, in her signature serif font, as if that added some layer of journalistic legitimacy to what she’d done.

The article wasn’t long — it didn’t have to be. The damage wasn’t in the words. It was in the pictures.

A blurry shot of Jaxon and me under the bleachers, our heads tilted close, his hand somewhere near my waist. A screenshot of a message: meet me after cleanup ❤️. My name. My phone style. My stupid heart emoji. I didn’t even remember sending it, but there it was.

And worst of all — three photos of me wearing his hoodie.

Three different days. Three different places.

One of them was clearly from my own lunch table.

Someone had taken that photo while sitting beside me.

I couldn’t breathe.

I stood there like the floor had vanished beneath my shoes, like I was still falling and my body just hadn’t caught up. People were reading over my shoulder now, whispering not even quietly, and I couldn’t hear what they were saying because my pulse was too loud.

My phone vibrated in my back pocket. I grabbed it with hands that didn’t feel like mine.

Macy had texted a single question mark.

Leah had sent a “???” followed by “Call me.”

Jamie hadn’t sent anything at all.

My fingers curled around the phone like I might crush it.

I turned and walked. Fast. I didn’t know where I was going. I just knew I couldn’t stay there, in that hallway with everyone staring and knowing and filling in blanks I hadn’t even drawn yet.

I ended up in the second floor girls’ bathroom, locked in the last stall. My feet hit the floor too loud. My hands shook too much. I sat on the closed toilet seat, fully dressed, knees bouncing, like I could outrun the story if I just kept moving.

I opened my messages. Scrolled to Jaxon.

ZOE: Did you see it?

No response.

I waited. Watched the screen. Nothing.

ZOE: Please call me.

Still nothing.

I called him. Once. It rang. Voicemail. I called again. Same thing.

I didn’t leave a message.

I stared at the stall door and tried to remember how to breathe evenly.

From the other side of the room, I heard the bathroom door swing open. Laughter. One voice said my name. They didn’t whisper. I stayed silent, hands clenched in my lap, as they came and went like a passing wave.

I didn’t cry. Not because I wasn’t close. But because it felt like crying would be the most visible thing I could do.

And I’d already been seen more than enough.

I didn’t know which part hurt the most. That Madison had published it. That the photos came from people I’d trusted. That someone, somewhere, had saved my hoodie moments like a trail of evidence. That Jaxon hadn’t texted back.

I felt like I was unraveling — like the seams of the version of myself I’d held together all year were fraying thread by thread.

I had thought I was prepared.

But I wasn’t prepared for this.

I gripped my phone tighter, heart pounding. I wanted to scream. I wanted to smash it. I wanted to call him again and demand answers — but I couldn’t handle one more unanswered ring.

I stared down at the screen, still lit up with Macy’s question mark. Leah’s missed call. A whole inbox of judgment disguised as curiosity.

And for the first time in all of this, I asked myself the question I hadn’t dared touch:

What if I’ve already lost them all?

Leah. Jamie. Even Macy.

The people who made me feel like I belonged. Who knew my order at Joe Bean’s. Who had been in every group photo since freshman year. Who swore we’d be in each other’s weddings. Who laughed with me at lunch and cried with me at sleepovers and promised we’d never be the kind of friends who stabbed each other in the back.

Now I wasn’t sure if they even saw me the same way anymore.

If they’d ever forgive me.