The rain was relentless that day, as if the sky itself had decided to cry for me, saving me the trouble. I watched it hit the window in small explosions, each drop a reminder of how small moments can collide and shatter into pieces. I used to think those moments didn’t matter—one look, one touch, one fleeting decision—but now I know how wrong I was.

It all started because I liked him.

Honestly, that sounds ridiculous, doesn’t it? Liking someone. Just liking them, that’s all it was. He wasn’t even the type of guy you’d expect to ruin your life. Quiet, gentle, with that half-smile that tugged at the corner of his lips when he thought no one was looking. But I saw it. I noticed him. And somehow, that was enough to send everything spiraling.

Everyone warned me about him. The whispers started before we even touched, before his name even escaped my mouth like a secret I couldn’t keep. They told me he was trouble, but not in the obvious ways. No, it wasn’t that he was dangerous, or cruel, or broken. He was the kind of trouble that sneaks up on you. The kind that makes you believe you’ll be the exception. That with you, everything will be different.

I thought I was different.

But the truth is, the world doesn’t care if you’re different. It doesn’t care if your heart is full of good intentions or if your love feels pure. It only sees the surface—the rumors, the glances, the way your name gets tangled up in someone else’s until it’s no longer your own. And once the world has decided who you are, there’s no going back.

The texts came first. I remember sitting in the school library, a place that had always felt safe, like it had its own kind of silence. I was flipping through my notes, pretending I could focus on something other than him, when my phone lit up. It was a single message, just one line, but it felt like the ground opened beneath me.

_So, you’re really with him?_

It wasn’t from a friend, not really. More like someone who used to be. The accusation sat there, staring back at me, waiting for my response. But I didn’t have one. What could I say? Yes? No? I didn’t even know what we were yet, but apparently, everyone else did.

By the time I closed my notebook and left the library, more messages were waiting. One from a girl I barely knew but who seemed to know everything about me. Another from someone who hadn’t spoken to me in months. My name was already spreading like wildfire, and with it came the embers of everything I thought was mine—my reputation, my friends, my safety.

It only took three days before the world had decided who I was.

It didn’t matter that he was kind to me, that he made me feel like I was someone worth looking at twice. It didn’t matter that when he held my hand, I felt more alive than I had in years. The truth was never as interesting as the stories people made up about us. About me.

Slut. Liar. Fake.

I used to wonder how people could be so cruel, so quick to tear someone down when they didn’t even know the first thing about them. But now I understand. It’s easy. It’s too easy, really. Because once you start tearing someone apart, you forget that there’s a real person underneath. A person who wakes up in the middle of the night, gasping for air, because they’re drowning in things they can’t control.

I stopped going to school. I stopped answering the phone, stopped opening the messages, stopped looking in the mirror. My parents thought I was sick, and in a way, I was. Sick of being who I was. Sick of being this version of myself that everyone else seemed to have written for me.

There was no escaping it. Every day, another post, another comment, another stranger who thought they knew me better than I knew myself.

And through it all, I kept thinking, all of this, just because I liked a boy.

The halls of the school were loud, but not in the way they used to be. It wasn’t the chatter of friends or the rustle of papers anymore. It was the sound of whispers—sharp, slicing whispers that seemed to follow me no matter where I went. They were always just loud enough for me to hear, but never clear enough for me to confront.

_Did you hear?_

_Yeah, she’s with him. Can you believe it?_

It started small. A few people staring a little too long, a few laughs shared as I walked past. I told myself it would blow over. That people would get bored, move on. But they didn’t. It was like the entire school had made me their new hobby, and the more I tried to disappear, the more visible I became.

One day, I was walking to class when I felt it—the weight of eyes on me. A group of girls stood at the end of the hallway, leaning against the lockers, waiting for me. I had known most of them for years. We used to sit together at lunch, sharing secrets and complaining about homework. Now they looked at me like I was something less than human. I tried to keep my head down, but that only seemed to encourage them.

“Hey, how’s your _boyfriend_?” one of them called out, the sarcasm dripping from her voice.

I didn’t answer. I just kept walking, hoping if I pretended not to hear, they’d stop.

But they didn’t.

“I’m surprised you’re even showing your face here,” another one said, loud enough for the whole hallway to hear. “After what you did.”

The whispers stopped. The entire hallway went silent, like everyone was waiting for my reaction. I felt my chest tighten, the familiar panic creeping in. My feet moved faster, desperate to get away, but I could still hear them.

“Slut.”

“Traitor.”

“Pathetic.”

I don’t know why that last word hit me the hardest. Maybe because that’s how I felt—pathetic. For thinking I could just like someone and not have it ruin me. For thinking I could be strong enough to handle it. My hands were shaking by the time I made it to the classroom, but even there, the silence followed me. The teacher called my name for attendance, and when I mumbled a quiet “here,” someone in the back laughed.

By lunch, I had stopped trying to fight it. I found a corner in the cafeteria, far from the tables where I used to sit. Where my friends still sat, laughing and talking like nothing had changed. Like I had never been part of their lives at all. I watched them from a distance, their smiles so carefree, so distant. I wondered if they even remembered me, if they thought about what it felt like to be on the outside looking in.

No one sat with me. No one even looked in my direction.

When the bell rang, I didn’t move. I couldn’t. The noise of everyone rushing out around me made my head spin, made my chest feel tight, like there wasn’t enough air in the room. I stayed there, frozen in place, until the cafeteria was empty, until the silence was so loud it was unbearable.

I felt the tears coming, but I swallowed them back. I had told myself over and over that I wouldn’t cry. Not here. Not where they could see. But it was like holding back a tidal wave. I couldn’t stop it. I couldn’t stop _any_ of it.

I stumbled out of the cafeteria and into the nearest bathroom, my vision blurring as the tears spilled out. My legs gave out before I could make it to a stall, and I collapsed onto the cold tile floor, sobbing into my hands.

I couldn’t do it anymore. I couldn’t keep pretending that it didn’t hurt, that I was fine, that I was strong enough to handle this on my own. Because the truth was, I wasn’t. I wasn’t strong. I wasn’t brave. I was broken. Broken in a way that felt irreparable, like no matter what I did, I could never put myself back together again.

I thought about texting someone—anyone—just to hear a familiar voice. I opened my phone and stared at the list of names, my thumb hovering over each one. Every person I used to trust, every person who used to care.

But when I looked closer, I realized none of them had reached out to me in days. Weeks, even. I had become invisible to them, too.

I didn’t understand it. How could they all just leave? How could they look at me and turn away like I didn’t matter anymore? Was I that disposable to them?

And then it hit me. I was alone. Completely, painfully alone.

The realization broke something inside me. A sob so deep and raw escaped my throat, and I couldn’t stop it. I couldn’t stop the tears, the shaking, the overwhelming sense of abandonment. It felt like drowning, like I was trapped under the weight of everything that had been taken from me.

I cried for what felt like hours, curled up on the cold, unforgiving floor, until the tears dried and all that was left was the emptiness.

I wiped my face with my sleeve, staring at my reflection in the cracked mirror. My eyes were swollen, red, and I barely recognized myself. I looked like a ghost—like someone who had been hollowed out.

I stayed there, in that bathroom, long after the final bell rang. Because at least in that small, quiet room, no one could hurt me. No one could judge me. No one could see me falling apart.

No one could see how lost I’d become.