Chapter 5:The Day I Fought Back
851 Words
Rumors are like smoke—they start with a spark, swirl in silence, and choke you before you know you’re breathing them in.
Ever since Nate and I ended—if silence and ghosting counted as an ending—the whispers only got louder.
“She’s damaged goods.”
“Probably cheated on him.”
“She cries in the bathroom, like, every week.”
“I heard she begged him to stay.”
None of it was true. But truth didn’t matter. Not in hallways echoing with fake laughs and locker slams.
I tried to ignore it. I tried to bury myself in physics, calculus, and the one or two piano pieces I still had time to touch. But pain has a way of leaking out—through tired eyes, missed homework, and eventually, silence.
Then came the notebook incident.
Someone slid a torn page into my locker. It wasn’t signed, but the handwriting was familiar—curvy, perfect, polished.
“Stay away from our tables. You don’t belong.”
Attached was a drawing of me, exaggerated and cruel—ugly, alone, and crying.
Something inside me cracked.
That afternoon, in front of the full cafeteria, I stood up from my seat.
I walked to Emily’s table.
Every eye followed.
She looked up, frozen.
“You forgot your trash,” I said, calmly placing the drawing in front of her tray. “Don’t worry, I cleaned up for you.”
Gasps. A few stunned laughs. Emily blinked, speechless. I turned and walked away without looking back, heart racing, legs trembling—but chest lighter than it had been in weeks.
After that, the whispers faded. Not because they liked me, but because I reminded them I wasn’t afraid anymore.
Spring — The Start of Something New
It was early spring, my second year of high school. The cherry trees outside the library were beginning to bloom, and the air was filled with possibility—or at least pollen.
I spent most of my breaks in the library now, away from the cliques, from noise, from everything that didn’t sound like a turning page.
That’s when I noticed him.
He wasn’t hard to miss—tall (over six feet for sure), pale skin like fresh paper, and that “messy on purpose” hair that always seems to fall perfectly during layups. He was always surrounded by noise in the gym, laughter on the court.
But here, in the library, he looked…lost.
One Tuesday, he stood by the bookshelf labeled “Trigonometry and You,” squinting like the title offended him.
“You’re in the wrong section,” I said without thinking.
He looked up—surprised. Then he grinned, boyish and bright.
“Ah, so you’re the girl who actually reads these.”
I shrugged. “Someone has to.”
He held up a workbook. “I need help. With...everything, honestly. Think you could save me from failing?”
That’s how it started.
He introduced himself as Rowan. A junior like me, on the basketball team, and currently flunking trigonometry.
“I swear, I can remember twenty plays and shoot from half court, but the second I see sine or cosine, my brain goes blank.”
“Sounds like a personal problem,” I said, but I was already flipping through his notes.
We started meeting every Tuesday and Thursday after school in the quiet back corner of the library. At first, it was all triangles, angles, and test dates.
But soon, it was also:
Rowan sneaking in snacks.
Rowan sketching me as “Pythagorean Queen” in the margins of his notebook.
Rowan asking if I wanted to come to his game “just for luck.”
He wasn’t like Nate. He didn’t ask where I was, or who I spoke to. He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t demand.
He just... showed up.
One rainy Thursday, we both forgot umbrellas. We stood at the school entrance, watching the downpour blur the sidewalks into silver ribbons.
“You know,” he said, “I wouldn’t mind getting drenched if it means walking you home.”
I laughed. “You’re an idiot.”
“Maybe. But I’m your i***t tutor-ee.”
He grinned, and I felt something shift—something old leaving, something new beginning.
We ran through the rain that day, laughing like children, soaked to our bones. He didn’t try to hold my hand. He didn’t need to.
By the time we reached my apartment building, I was shivering but warm.
“You’re not like I expected,” I said, almost shyly.
“Good or bad?”
“Real,” I whispered.
He winked. “Same to you, Nocturne Girl.”
Late Night
That night, I sat at the piano for the first time in weeks and played—not for a professor, not for a competition, not for the memory of who I used to be.
Just for me.
Through the window, I could see the lights of the city, blurred by raindrops.
And for the first time in a long time, I didn’t feel broken.
- Writer
