Three days had passed since the worst day of my life, and the nightmare just seemed to keep spiralling. The police had closed the case. Chad Turner had managed to twist the truth so thoroughly that they took the whole thing as a misunderstanding. My shattered phone, the one thing I had to prove my side, was gone, and with it, my chance for justice.
My foster parents were the next to turn their backs. They had always been distant, but now they were convinced I was lying, that I was just seeking attention. I could see it in their eyes as they packed my things into boxes, their expressions a mix of irritation and disapproval.
"You're going to a new home," my foster mom said, her voice cold and detached. "We've informed the authorities. They'll be here to pick you up shortly."
I felt a lump in my throat. "But... why? I didn't do anything wrong."
"Enough of this," my foster dad cut in. "We've made our decision."
As I was driven to my new foster home, I could hardly hold back my tears. I didn't want to leave the only place I had ever known, despite how hard it had been. This new place felt like just another stop on a never-ending journey.
At school, things were even worse. My locker had been tampered with, and when I opened it, I found a note scrawled in angry red ink: "Sl*t." The humiliation was unbearable. I wanted to crumble to the floor, but I couldn't—there were eyes everywhere, watching and whispering.
Even Sue, the one person I had trusted, turned her back on me. When I tried to talk to her, hoping for some comfort, she just looked at me with cold eyes.
"Mia, you're making a big deal out of nothing," Sue said, her voice flat. "I don't know why you're acting like this."
I felt betrayed and utterly alone. My heart ached with every cruel word, every mocking glance.
Things got even worse when a group of students made a public spectacle of me in the cafeteria. They surrounded me, shouting insults and throwing food. My face burned with shame as I tried to hide, but the laughter and jeers only grew louder.
Later that day, the principal called me into his office. His face was a mask of professionalism, but his eyes held a glint of something I couldn't quite place—disapproval, perhaps.
"Mia," he began, "we've decided to give you a week off from school. You're a senior, and your academic performance is exceptional. We don't want to disrupt your studies, but given the recent... issues, we think it's best if you only come in for exams."
The way he said "issues" made it clear that he was more concerned about avoiding scandal than about my well-being. I wanted to argue, to demand more, but I could only nod in defeat.
At my new foster home, the couple who took me in were kind and welcoming. They tried their best to make me feel comfortable, but I couldn't shake the feeling of disconnection. Everything felt foreign—new furniture, new faces, a new bed. It was like trying to fit into a puzzle where none of the pieces matched.
The weeks dragged on, and I felt like I was living in a haze. I would sit in my room, staring at the wall, feeling as though I was a shadow of my former self. I wasn't the person I used to be; I was a broken version.