The next morning felt different. Lila woke up with a strange feeling—not quite fear, not quite strength, something in between. She brushed her hair slowly, tied her shoes carefully, and walked to school with her notebook held tight, not as a shield but as something she owned. And yet, she couldn't escape the heavy awareness that more rumors awaited her. She just didn't know what shape they would take.
When she reached the school gate, she noticed something odd immediately. A few students stared at her, whispered, then looked away quickly. It wasn't like yesterday—it was sharper, more targeted. A group of boys laughed when she passed. A girl walking beside her pulled out her phone, snapped a picture of Lila's face, and hurried off as if she'd just stolen something valuable.
Inside the classroom, things were strangely quiet. More eyes stared than usual, and most of them didn't look curious anymore. They looked entertained. Lila sat down slowly. Jamal wasn't in class yet—she checked the empty seat beside the window. She wished he would just come in so the staring would stop, even if they didn't speak.
Then the teacher arrived, and as she began teaching, students pretended to listen. But they were too distracted, too busy stealing glances at their phones. Lila's heart pounded. She didn't know what had happened yet, but she could sense something spreading, something bigger than yesterday's rumors.
At break, she understood.
The moment she stepped outside, she heard laughter bursting across the yard. But it wasn't random. Some students pointed at her, showing each other their phones. One of the boys held his screen toward his friend, and the boys howled. Lila rushed closer, trying to see what they were looking at.
She froze.
On the screen was a manipulated photo of her and Jamal—standing close, hand in hand, with red cartoon hearts drawn all around them. Someone had edited their faces so they looked like they were almost kissing. The picture was fake, childish, ridiculous… but the entire school was treating it like truth. Worse, her expression in the picture looked lovesick, desperate, weak. She felt exposed, humiliated, stripped of dignity she had never even tried to show off.
The worst part? The caption under the photo read:
"Lila: Begging for Jamal's attention since day one 💋🤢"
Her chest tightened as if someone had tied a rope around it. She couldn't breathe properly. Students surrounded her like spectators in a circus, throwing jokes like rotten fruit.
"Are you going to confess today?" one shouted.
"Love letters coming soon!" another yelled.
"Jamal's new wife!" someone mocked, bowing dramatically to her.
She wanted to scream. To disappear. To burn every phone in sight. But all she could do was stand there, frozen, trapped in a nightmare she hadn't created.
Suddenly, someone pushed through the crowd. It was Jamal. His eyes scanned the phones around him. He snatched one from a boy's hand, stared at the picture, and his face hardened.
"Who made this?" he demanded.
No one answered. There was laughter, nervous or cruel, she couldn't tell. Jamal's voice grew lower, sharper. "Who did it?"
Still silence. A silence full of guilty smiles.
Lila didn't move. She felt small, smaller than she had ever felt before, like she was disappearing into a corner of the world. Then she heard Jamal speak again—but his voice was different now, not angry, not loud. It was controlled. Cold.
"Whoever did this," he said, "you're a coward. And you've got no life if this is what you do for fun."
Some students lowered their eyes. Others pretended not to care. The crowd's energy shifted slightly. But the damage was done—the photo was everywhere now.
That afternoon, Lila walked home alone again. Not because she wanted distance from Jamal… but because she felt like she didn't know how to face anyone anymore.
When she got home, she sat on her bed and stared at the wall. She didn't cry. She didn't scream. She felt nothing, like her feelings had been squeezed out of her until she was empty.
And when her phone buzzed, she ignored it—until the third time. She looked at the screen.
It was a message.
From an unknown number.
The message said only one sentence:
"I know who did it. Meet me tomorrow."
Lila's breath caught in her throat.
Someone knew.
Someone was watching.
And someone wanted to talk.