Everyone knew. And literally no one had the balls to say anything.
That was the part that gutted me–not Miles being a cheating asshole, not Amber’s smug little victory lap, not even the whispers that followed me like a bad soundtrack. It was the silence. The way people I’d shared inside jokes with suddenly developed fascinating interests in their shoes whenever I walked by.
“Hey Zoey-” Danica started at my locker, then saw me actually look at her and noped right out. Just pivoted and speed–walked down a hallway she’d never used in her life.
Grace managed a weak wave before studying the floor like it held the secrets of the universe.
I wasn’t even mad at them. How do you comfort someone whose boyfriend dumped them for being “boring” in front of half the senior class? There’s no Hallmark card for that level of social annihilation.
By lunch, I was operating on pure spite and caffeeria coffee. Sat at our usual table like nothing had changed, except now I was basically invisible. The soccer guys were whispering and snickering too loud–probably not about me, but paranoia doesn’t really care about logic.
I dumped my untouched sandwich and left. The sound of it hitting the trash echoed louder than any conversation I’d had all day. At home, Mom ambushed me with her daily agenda. “Scholarship forms are due Friday. Also, Mrs. Byrne says you’re slipping in gale.”
No “how was your day?” No “you look like someone ran over your dog.” Just deadlines and disappointment.
“Got it,” I said, grabbing a water glass with hands that wouldn’t stop shaking.
And don’t forget-”
“I said I got it.”
She blinked at my tone but kept going. College apps, practice schedules, GPA maintenance. I took my violin upstairs and pretended to practice while my life crumbled in 4/4 time.
4
By next morning, I was running on fumes and fury. Everything felt too bright, too loud, too much. My skin was crawling and my thoughts were screaming and I couldn’t keep pretending this was fine.
English class. Mrs. Reynolds clapped her hands and announced group projects, her voice way too chipper for a Monday morning.
“Pairs will be assigned–no swapping. I want new ideas, new perspectives. First up: Amber Mays and… Zoey Hale.”
My stomach dropped. I didn’t even get a chance to process it before Amber turned around, locked eyes
Actually laughed.
with
me,
and laughed.
Then she leaned into Miles, her grin sharp, dismissive–like I was background noise. Like this entire class had just become one long, slow nightmare.
Something snapped.
“I’m not working with her.”
Mrs. Reynolds paused mid–sentence. “Excuse me?”
“I said I’m not fucking working with her.” My voice was shaking but I couldn’t stop. “She can plagiarize off someone else for once.”
Dead silence. Then nervous laughter. A few gasps. Amber’s face twisted like she’d tasted something rancid.
“Miss Hale, hallway. Now.”
I stood up so fast my chair scraped the floor like nails on a chalkboard. Grabbed my bag, walked out, and didn’t look back.
Mrs. Reynolds followed me with that teacher voice–disappointed but not surprised. Handed me a detention slip like it was my diploma.
“Room 107. After school.”
I’d never had detention in my life. Honor roll, perfect, attendance, the works. And now here I was, holding a pink slip like a participation trophy for emotional breakdown.
The detention room smelled like dry erase markers and industrial cleaner. Fluorescent lights buzzing overhead like angry wasps. I dropped into a desk by the window and tried not to think about how I’d explain this to my parents.
“You’re early.”
12:29 AM
“You’re early.”
I looked up. Of course. Chase Donovan, feet propped up on a desk, black nail polish chipped, watching me like I was his personal entertainment.
“You again,” I said.
“You make a habit of public meltdowns, or was that a limited engagement?”
“I didn’t plan it.”
“Best explosions never are.” He shifted in his seat, studying me. “They’re just overdue.”
I stared out the window. Everything looked wrong–the parking lot, the trees, even the sky seemed off–color. Like someone had adjusted the saturation on my entire life.
“I’m not like this,” I muttered.
“Like what?”
“This.” I gestured at the room, at myself, at the general disaster of my existence. “I don’t do detention. I don’t cause scenes. I follow rules.”
Congratulations. You’re evolving.”
I should’ve felt ashamed. Should’ve been mortified. But underneath all the hurt and humiliation, there was this tiny spark of something that felt like… relief? Like I’d finally stopped holding my breath.
“I don’t care what they’re saying about me,” I said.
“You will,” Chase replied, not unkindly. “Just not today.”
I looked at him–really looked. He wasn’t judging or pitying or trying to fix me. He was just… there. Waiting. Like he’d been expecting this version of me all along.
That’s when it hit me. He had seen this coming. Had seen me coming apart before I even knew I was breaking.
And now I was stuck with him in detention.
