Graduation was four weeks away.
And Simon Donovan had a plan that could get him thrown out before he ever crossed that stage.
"Tell me again why we're doing this?" Elena asked.
They were sitting in his room. Her feet were in his lap. His laptop sat open between them, a Google Doc labeled:
"Valedictory Sabotage" (he'd named it ironically, since he wasn't even top ten).
Simon looked her straight in the eyes. "Because we've spoken online. We've spoken in that courtroom. Now it's time we speak in front of the people who raised us, taught us, judged us, and tried to silence us."
Elena exhaled. "And this is your idea of closure?"
"No," he said. "This is my idea of legacy."
The graduation plan was simple.
Not safe.
Not smart.
But simple.
Simon would be on the senior stage crew, which meant access to the mic, the sound booth, and the livestream system that would broadcast the ceremony online.
Elena wasn't on any official list—but she'd already gotten a friend in admin to promise her a guest pass for backstage.
During the last speech of the night—right before the diplomas—Simon would cut the mic feed, take the stage, and speak. One last time.
Not about GPA.
Not about futures.
But about truth.
About them.
The school's attempts to quiet them hadn't worked.
If anything, it had made their voices louder.
More students had begun speaking out. About everything—racism, identity, homophobia, abuse. What started as a scandal was becoming a movement.
And Simon didn't want it to fizzle out in silence.
"I don't care if they rip the mic out of my hands," he said. "As long as I say it first."
But Elena wasn't fully in.
Not yet.
One night, as they lay in the back of her dad's car parked in the shadow of the Queensboro Bridge, she spoke softly:
> "What if this makes everything worse?"
Simon didn't answer right away.
He watched the water ripple along the river, city lights flickering off the surface.
Then: "What if it makes someone else brave?"
Meanwhile, not everyone was celebrating them.
In a quiet corner of the school office, the vice principal was having a private conversation.
"I want eyes on them," she said, handing a manila folder to the head of security. "They've already embarrassed us once. I won't allow them to turn graduation into a spectacle."
The guard opened the file.
Inside were photos. Notes. A printed transcript from their livestream.
"If they step out of line," she added, "I want them off that stage before they open their mouths."
Back in Simon's room, Elena hovered over the laptop.
"I want to write it with you," she said.
Simon blinked. "What?"
"The speech. I want every word to be ours."
So they sat.
Midnight blurred into 2 a.m. Fingers flying over keys. Editing. Rewriting. Pausing to kiss between paragraphs. Arguing over word choice. Rewriting again.
By 3:40 a.m., the file was done.
Titled:
"This Is Not Goodbye – By Simon & Elena"
The next day, something unexpected happened.
A message arrived in Simon's inbox.
From his AP Lit teacher, Mr. Reiner:
> Subject: Something You Should See
I thought this might interest you.
Someone submitted a formal complaint about you and Elena. Again.
But this time… it wasn't just a parent.
It came from inside the school board.
Attached was a PDF.
Simon opened it.
The complaint accused them of using "manipulative media tactics," "inciting unrest," and "romanticizing morally inappropriate behavior."
In bold at the bottom:
> Recommendation: Graduation participation to be revoked pending review.
Simon's blood ran cold.
He sent the file to Elena.
Her response came instantly:
> Elena: So they're trying to erase us.
Simon: Not if we beat them to the mic.
Elena: We'll have 90 seconds max.
Simon: That's all we need.
That Friday, rehearsal day, Simon slipped into the AV booth and tested the new mic. The tech supervisor barely glanced at him.
The controls were easy.
Too easy.
And no one was watching.
Backstage, Elena hid in plain sight, dressed like a student intern. Her nerves were volcano-hot.
Simon found her beside the lighting panel.
"You still sure?" he asked.
She nodded. "You?"
"I've never been more sure of anything."
They didn't kiss.
They didn't smile.
They just looked at each other and knew—this was it.
In three days, graduation would be live.
Parents. Teachers. Cameras.
And one final, stolen moment to tell the world:
> We are not a mistake.
We are not sorry.
We are love.
Deal with it.