Seconds stretch—long, tense, unbearable. It feels like hours go by before she finally speaks.
“Miranda,” I plead, “please tell me what happened. What’s wrong?”
She swallows, her shoulders collapsing inward. “It’s all my fault,” she whispers. “I’m so sorry. I can’t tell you how sorry I am. I never wanted this to come out.”
My chest goes tight.
“What? What came out?” I ask, my voice sharp with panic.
She releases a long, defeated sigh and hands me her phone. Her fingers are trembling. I take it gently from her and look down at the screen.
A grid of TikTok videos fills the page—dozens of them—all about the same thing. The same name.
Her name.
My brows knit together. I scroll, and my stomach lurches when I see a girl staring back at me. A girl who looks exactly like Miranda—only younger. Softer. More vulnerable.
I lift my eyes to hers, silently asking for an explanation.
“What is this?” I ask.
“Just watch,” she says, her hollow voice defeated.
I inhale deeply and press play.
A news report from years ago flashes across the screen. The headline reads:High School Basketball Scandal: Coach Clive Clearwater Under Investigation. The footage cuts to a montage—an old gym, game clips, interviews.
They introduce a basketball prodigy namedMiranda Sinclair.
They talk about her childhood—how she came from “the wrong side of the tracks,” from a poor neighborhood in LA, but because she was a once-in-a-generation talent, she earned a full scholarship to an elite private school.
Then the tone shifts. They mention her relationship with her coach, who is twenty years older.
My heartbeat stutters.
A clip plays.
Young Miranda stands on the courthouse steps, surrounded by microphones. Her voice is wavering but determined as she tells reporters they’re in love, that nothing wrong happened, that she chose him.
My pulse starts hammering.
My skin goes cold.
I continue watching, trying to make sense of something that feels surreal—horrifying. The report twists the narrative, subtly placing blame on a teenage girl while softening the monstrous actions of the man.
They zoom in on her face, the face I know, the freckles I trace with my fingers, the strawberry-blond hair she still tucks behind her ear when she’s nervous. Those big, innocent green eyes stare into the camera, terrified but brave, completely unaware of theworld twisting her story into something she’d spend years trying to outrun.
That girl grew up into the woman sitting before me. The woman I love.
And my heart breaks—not from betrayal, but from the weight she has clearly carried alone for far, far too long.
My lip starts to tremble, and my eyes fill with tears I refuse to let fall. I swallow the thick lump in my throat, forcing my emotions back. My heart is breaking for her—splintering apart—but I won’t make this moment about me. She needs strength right now.
I breathe slowly. Blink hard. Steady myself.
“I want to hear it in your words,” I say gently. “I want to hear what happened from you.”
If I’m going to help her—really help her—I need the truth. All of it. Not some twisted news clip. Not a sensationalized headline.Her truth.
