It doesn't feel like rebellion to ignore Romil's half-baked, zero-context Don't go to school message. Why should I stay home when he can't bother to give me a single explanation for the avalanche of questions he's left me with since the day before yesterday? I tried calling him again, but—of course—straight to voicemail.

So, I get ready for school.

At first, I don't notice anything off. The usual morning shuffle of students across the grounds, the faint hum of conversations. But as I walk further in, there's a shift—a kind of focus. On me. It's not like I'm a stranger to attention, not since the Shark Tank win, but this? This is different. This is sharp and jagged and wrong.

Crossing the parking lot, I catch a group of tenth-grade boys laughing, their heads tilted in my direction. One of them elbows the other, and they're all smirks and whispers. I glance behind me, hoping—praying—it's someone else they're gawking at. But no. It's me.

My heartbeat picks up, thumping louder than the morning announcements echoing from the speakers. A group of eleventh-grade girls passes by, their conversation stalling as they walk past me. One of them turns, looks me up and down, the curl of her lip unmistakable. Disgust.

I stop mid-step, my legs frozen while my brain races to catch up. Something is wrong—so, so wrong—and every nerve in my body feels it.

No. It isn't normal. I text Romil.

Me: I'm at school.
Me: Something's wrong.
Me: Please tell me what it is.
Me: Why can't I call you?
Me: PICK UP!!!

I wait. The screen stays blank.

Me: Romil??
Me: ?????

Nothing.

My hands are freezing, and every breath I exhale puffs out like smoke in the chilly air. It's getting colder by the second.

I shove my books into my locker, slam it shut, and head straight to the grounds. The moment I step outside, I know it's worse here. Much worse.

Except for the younger kids—primary and middle graders—everyone seems to turn my way. Their eyes find me, their gazes land like stones. Amused. Curious. Some flat-out leering.

I try to pick out familiar faces in the crowd, some lifeline in this sea of judgment, but there's no one.

I text Sakshi.

Me: Hey!

I pause, staring at the screen. What else? What can I even say?

Me: Where are you?

The second it delivers, the gray check turns blue, and relief flickers in my chest when Sakshi's reply pops up almost instantly.

Sakshi: In the ground floor restroom. Come quick, before the assembly!
Sakshi: You shouldn't have come though.

Her second text lands like a stone in my stomach, and I'm already moving, jogging toward the restroom, the cold replaced by the heat of dread clawing up my spine. By the time I push open the door, I'm sweating, my breath coming short and fast.

Sakshi is standing there, clutching her phone. Her face is pale, her whole body rigid, like she's been hit by lightning.

'Why is everyone looking at me like that?' I demand, shutting the door behind me.

'You weren't supposed to come!' Sakshi snaps, pacing, her phone gripped tight like it might shatter.

'Why does everyone keep saying that without actually telling me anything?' My eyes dart to her phone. 'What is it? What were you watching?'

'Hey, Maithili—' Her voice softens, but I don't miss the deliberate use of my full name. 'It's not your fault. It happens, okay? These things... happen.'

My voice cracks when I whisper, 'You're scaring me. What happened?'

She grabs my hands—cold, clammy, and shaking—and squeezes them, 'There's a video,' she starts, and before she can even finish, the dread hits me like a freight train.

'A video?' I whisper like I don't want to believe the words as they leave my mouth.

'In the library. You and—'

My hands fly to my mouth, a gasp breaking loose. 'There's a video?'

She nods, swallowing hard. 'It was posted anonymously in our class group chat. Then forwarded. And forwarded. The original post was deleted, but it's everywhere now. The damage is—'

'No.' I step back, my head shaking. 'No, no, no.'

'Maithili—'

'No!' The chant breaks out of me like I can will myself out of this waking nightmare if I just say it enough times. Like I can undo it.

'I'm sure Romil's working it out,' Sakshi says, her voice trembling, tears glistening at the corners of her eyes. She looks like she's about to shatter, and I wonder—if she looks like this, what do I look like?

The answer is nowhere near okay. Tears streak down my face—something I only notice when I glance at the mirror. My reflection is a warped caricature: my lips twisted, front strands of hair sticking up, sweat gleaming on my forehead and upper lip like I just ran a marathon straight into hell.

I swipe at the sweat with the back of my hand. 'What do I do?' I ask, though it's not really directed at her.

'We'll figure it out. Just calm down, okay?' she says.

I grab my head, the weight of it too much. Images flood my brain—the disciplinary hearing, the letter to my father, the whispers. I could get expelled. Midterm.

The walls feel like they're closing in, their edges curling like paper near a flame. I grip the sink to steady myself, but my head throbs, and the sound of my own pulse is louder than Sakshi's voice.

Somewhere in the distance, the assembly announcements drone on. It's almost over.

And then...?

'Maithili. It's Romil, right?' Sakshi asks tentatively.

For a moment, I don't understand. Then I see it—the flicker in her expression, a blend of hesitation and judgment, like she's stuck between being on my side or not. Like she doesn't know whether to feel disgusted with me or for me.

'What do you mean?' I croak. I'm not sure if I should be offended. I'm not sure I'm in any position to be.

'In the video,' she says carefully, 'you're the only one we can see clearly. The other person... the back of their head is blurred.'

'I want to see it.' My hand shoots out before I realize I've moved, palm open, demanding her phone.

'You don't have to,' she says like she's trying to save me from myself.

I keep my hand there, unmoving, until she sighs and hands me the phone. The chat is already open.

I scroll through the messages, forcing myself to overlook the hateful words flooding the chat, but a few still manage to stand out:

~Vaishali: Such a sl*t!
~Iamme: Quite a head girl, isn't she!
~SSS: Dude, who's the guy????
~Iamme: Isn't she dating Romil?
~Vaishali: I bet Romil doesn't even know she is being sl*tty with someone else.
~Vaishali: I feel bad for Romil...
~Rocky06: Does anyone has her number?
~SSS: Why bro? You want her service? 😉😉
~Rocky06: Her id? Anything?
~Rocky06: Oh, just talk, Rathore 😉

My thumb hovers over the video.

And then I press play.

There it is. The back aisle of the library. The evening of the viva. The angle is grainy, shot between the shelves, but it's clear enough. My face. My body. My bare chest. Unmistakable.

The video is forty excruciating seconds long. It starts with Romil sliding off my bra and ends with him frozen, on his knees.

His voice when he whispered, "You're so perfect"—is gone, stripped from the audio like it was never there. Intentionally erased.

But mine? Mine is louder than life. "Kiss me." "Love me." The words echo, twisting intimacy into a spectacle.

I'm half-naked, and I think that's just my reality now. Exposed in a way I never agreed to be, and suddenly, everything about that day feels contaminated. Everything we shared—every touch, every rush of love, every tender, unguarded moment—now feels wrong. It's like someone reached inside me, ripped out every good thing I felt, and shoved something jagged in its place.

I feel raw. Skinned alive.

'It's Romil,' I whisper, tears spilling freely.

I rewatch the video. This time, I notice Romil. He is blurred in a way that feels intentional, like whoever shot it wanted to save him. To protect him. And me?

They wanted to destroy me.