Chapter 2
753 Words
The next morning, Rebecca posted a carousel of nine selfies on i********:.
Her caption read: These are straight from the camera. I couldn't be bothered to edit them.
The comments quickly filled with compliments.
I stared at the post for three seconds, then commented.
Amelia: [Does your camera bend doorframes on its own? Also, why is your nose in a different place every day?]
She deleted the post a minute later. Two minutes after that, she messaged me.
Rebecca: Amelia, do you think you're funny?
Amelia: I do. I thought you liked honesty.
The typing indicator stayed on for a long time.
At last, she sent another one.
Rebecca: You've become so vicious.
I answered immediately.
Amelia: I learned from you.
She went quiet for several seconds. She wasn't out of things to say. She was deciding how to shift the blame again.
That was how it always went. She hurt me first, played innocent afterward, and then hid behind the words "just a joke."
This time, I was done playing along. She had turned my illness into a punch line, so I decided to let her find out what it felt like to become one.
At lunch, Rebecca bought me an iced latte. She set it on my desk, her voice suddenly syrupy sweet.
"Mia, I was wrong yesterday. I didn't realize you'd be so upset."
A sticky note on the cup sleeve read: Don't get mad. You might grow another lump.
Chloe snorted, and Natalie ducked her head to hide a smile.
Rebecca's eyes reddened at once. "I was only trying to cheer you up. You're not going to snap at me again, are you?"
She raised her phone as though she were taking a picture.
But I could see the i********: draft on her screen. She had already typed the caption: I bought an iced latte for my emotionally unstable roommate. I hope a little kindness gets through to her.
I pushed the drink back toward her. "You should drink it. Sugar won't fix that nasty mouth of yours."
Rebecca's smile froze.
I took out my phone and photographed the sticky note.
She reached for it at once. "Why are you taking a picture?"
I held the phone out of reach. "I want to remember how kind you are."
That afternoon, a new post appeared on Crestmore Confessions.
The post read: My roommate's personality completely changed after she found out she was sick. I bought her an iced latte to comfort her, and she said I had a nasty mouth.
The attached screenshot showed my comment but hid my name.
My academic program, dorm room number, and the phrase "breast lump" had all been left visible by "accident."
The comments piled up quickly.
A: [Does being sick give her the right to insult people?]
B: [She sounds terrifying.]
C: [Her roommate is the real victim.]
Rebecca joined the comments from her main account.
Rebecca: [Please don't attack her. She's under a lot of pressure.]
Rebecca: [I understand what she's going through.]
I stared at her comments for a long time. Then I saved screenshots of the Crestmore Confessions thread, Rebecca's i********: post, and the sticky note.
That evening, Mom called out of nowhere. She sounded panicked. "Mia, are you seriously ill?"
I paused. "Who told you that?"
Mom was quiet for a moment. "Your roommate called me. She said you haven't been acting like yourself lately."
I tightened my grip on the phone. "Mom, I'm fine."
Her voice trembled. "You call that fine? Don't lie to me. If someone is bullying you, tell me."
My throat closed up.
Rebecca sat at her desk applying hand cream. When she heard my mother, she slowly looked up and gave me the faintest smirk.
She said softly, "Your mom is only worried about you, Amelia. Don't treat everyone like they're out to get you."
I ended the call and looked at her. "You called my mother?"
Rebecca blinked at me innocently. "I was worried about you. You're not going to blame me for that too, are you?"
I looked down, opened a recording app, and watched the red dot light up.
"Of course not," I said. "I'm actually pretty worried about you too."
From that day on, I started recording as soon as I returned to the dorm. I kept an old phone charging beneath my pillow.
It wasn't about revenge. I had finally realized that if I stayed silent and kept no evidence, people could dismiss even real pain as an overreaction.
- Writer
