The notice was clear:
> "Your attendance is required at the disciplinary review board. Allegations include: inappropriate conduct, willful disruption of school environment, and misuse of public platform in connection to school identity."
In other words:
We don't like your truth, so we're calling it a threat.
Simon read the letter three times before he said a word.
Across the table, Elena was scrolling through the exact same email, her fingers clenched tight around her phone.
"They're really doing this," she muttered. "They're dragging us in like criminals."
"Not criminals," Simon said coldly. "Just students who dared to speak."
The hearing was set for Wednesday, three days from now.
No lawyer. No advocate. Just two students versus a panel of adults in power suits and policy smiles.
But Simon didn't plan to walk in unarmed.
He planned to bring hell.
Over the weekend, they plotted.
Between texts, FaceTime, and a shared Google doc titled "Operation: Graduation Firestorm," Simon and Elena crafted a plan to make the hearing theirs.
Not a defense.
A declaration.
Meanwhile, the internet was still on fire.
Clips from their BuzzWire livestream were everywhere.
> "This is how you speak truth."
"Their calm in the storm? Iconic."
"Their school's reaction? Pathetic."
A new wave of supporters had begun tagging the school directly, demanding accountability for punishing two teens over love.
Still, others called them reckless. Dangerous.
But the tide was shifting.
And the school felt it.
On Monday morning, Simon and Elena met secretly in the back hallway of the science wing.
That's where she handed him a flash drive.
"What's this?"
"Our speech. The final version. I added my part."
He smiled. "You trust me to read it with you?"
"I trust you to burn with me."
But something happened on Tuesday that shook everything.
At the end of third period, a teacher knocked gently on Simon's classroom door and handed him a folded note.
> Come to Room 2B after school. Come alone.
– M.R.
Mr. Reiner. AP Literature. The only adult who hadn't looked at him like a scandal.
Simon went.
Reiner's classroom was dim. The blinds half-closed. On his desk sat a manila folder and a steaming mug of black tea.
"You're not in trouble," he said immediately.
Simon stood stiff. "Okay."
"I've watched what's happened to you," Reiner continued. "And I haven't said anything. I thought staying neutral was safe. Smart. But it wasn't brave."
Simon blinked. "Are you saying you support us?"
"I'm saying the world is full of cowards," Reiner said. "But I'm not going to be one anymore."
He slid the folder across the desk.
Simon opened it.
Inside was a typed letter on school letterhead, with Reiner's signature at the bottom.
> To Whom It May Concern,
I have witnessed no misconduct from Simon Donovan or Elena Reyes. What I have seen is courage, integrity, and emotional intelligence beyond their years...
It was a faculty testimonial.
"You'll need something official," Reiner said. "They plan to bury you."
Simon didn't know what to say.
So he just whispered: "Thank you."
Reiner smiled. "Don't thank me yet. Go win."
Wednesday.
The hearing room looked like a courtroom and a funeral had a baby.
Wooden table. Water pitcher. Four-person panel. Principal. School board rep. Head of student discipline. Some district watchdog Simon had never met.
Elena wore black again.
Simon wore a suit.
They sat shoulder to shoulder, fingers interlocked under the table.
"Ms. Reyes. Mr. Donovan," the woman at the head began. "You understand the nature of this hearing?"
Simon leaned forward. "We understand you're here to punish us for making people uncomfortable."
A pause.
"Let's begin," she said tightly.
The questions came fast and clinical.
> "Were you aware your video would reflect on the school?"
"Did either of you consider the influence you'd have on other students?"
"Do you believe your behavior is consistent with our institution's values?"
At first, Simon answered calmly.
But Elena?
She waited.
Let them speak. Let them accuse.
And then, when they offered her the final word…
She stood up.
"I wrote something," she said, pulling a folded sheet from her jacket pocket.
Simon stood beside her.
And together—they read.
> "We didn't come here to beg.
We didn't come here to apologize.
We came here to remind you that love isn't decided by a handbook or hallway rumor.
That truth doesn't shrink just because people can't hold it.
That your silence allowed our pain, and our volume created our freedom."
"We may walk out of this room suspended.
Or expelled.
Or stripped of everything we've built here.
But you will never erase what we are."
"We are not a scandal.
We are not a warning.
We are not broken.
We are not ashamed."
"We are fire.
And fire doesn't apologize."
When they finished, the room was silent.
The panel scribbled notes. No one looked up.
Simon reached into his folder and slid Reiner's testimonial across the table.
"Just in case you forgot not every adult in this school thinks with fear."
They left the room together.
Not handcuffed.
Not in tears.
Just... defiant.
That evening, a message went out to the student body.
> School Announcement:
"The disciplinary board has concluded its review. Simon Donovan and Elena Reyes will not face suspension. However, the administration reserves the right to issue future guidance on media engagement."
Translation:
We lost, but we're too proud to admit it.
Simon and Elena?
They celebrated with pizza in the back of a cab.
And one new idea.
Graduation.
A stage.
A crowd.
A microphone.
And one final burn.