The nightstand is split down the middle. Splintered like someone took a bat to it. There’s lipstick smeared on the mirror, too. A crude drawing. I don’t even cry at first. I just stand there, numb, the silence roaring in my ears.
Then Maggie’s voice drifts from the doorway. “Told you this would happen.”
She’s flanked by Brielle, both in their matching cheer jackets, smirking.
I turn, throat raw. “What the hell is wrong with you?”
“What’s wrong withus?” Brielle laughs. “You’re the one who couldn’t keep your legs closed. Now Bella’s humiliated, theteam’s pissed, and everyone knows what kind of girl you really are.”
“I didn’t—”
“Oh, please,” Maggie cuts in. “You think anyone believes that? You go after Jamie, you go after Miles—what did you think was going to happen?”
I take a shaky step back, hitting the edge of the desk. “You can’t do this.”
Brielle crosses her arms. “We already did.”
Maggie tilts her head. “Oh, and Chloe? See you at practice tomorrow.”
They leave, laughter echoing down the hall.
I look back at the mess, and I can still hear Dad’s voice—keep your head down.
Maybe if I stay quiet, if I just take it, they’ll get bored. Maybe the whispers will stop.
Then I start cleaning.
Because that’s what I do. I clean up messes. I pretend I’m fine. I pretend the world doesn’t hate me for wanting things I shouldn’t.
By the time I’m done, it’s past midnight. My room looks less like a crime scene and more like an aftermath.
I crawl into bed—no sheets, just the bare mattress—and stare at the ceiling.
The lipstick word still gleams faintly in the dark.
And all I can think about is how I deserve it.
Because deep down, I know they’re right. I am a slut.
I was wrong.
Keeping my head down does not work.
It’s been a week of hell. My shampoo replaced with apple sauce. My clothes dumped in the communal shower. A dead fish slipped under my bed.
Yesterday, someone locked my closet and threw away the key. Today, I found the house lock changed. No one texted to tell me. No warning, just the cold click of the key not turning.
So I spent the night at my old apartment. The one Dad was paying for. I swore I wouldn’t go to it, but I always kept it as a backup just in case. Turns out that time happened sooner than later. The heating doesn’t work, the pipes rattle, and the mattress dips in the middle like it’s sighing under the weight of my bad decisions.
Still, it’s quiet.
No footsteps outside my door. No whispered laughter bleeding through the walls. No one giving me evil eyes.
I guess that counts as peace.
Except for the silence in my phone.
After that one text from Miles, it’s been crickets. No follow-up. No apology. No explanation.
