It started small.
Too small for teachers to notice.
Mira's chair would be missing when she entered class. Her notes disappeared right before lessons. Group partners were suddenly reassigned at the last minute, leaving her standing alone.
Ariana never touched her.
She didn't have to.
"Accidents happen," Ariana said lightly one afternoon when Mira arrived late to class after being sent to the wrong room. "Maybe you should learn to keep up."
Mira said nothing.
She took her seat and opened her book.
That, somehow, made it worse.
---
The real line was crossed during literature class.
The teacher announced a writing assignment—personal essays, to be submitted online and discussed anonymously the following week.
Mira wrote hers that night.
She wrote about loss.
About silence.
About a father who stayed when the world left.
She didn't include names.
She didn't think she had to.
---
Two days later, laughter followed her down the hallway.
Not whispers.
Laughter.
Mira stopped at her locker, confused. Her phone vibrated at the same time.
A message.
A link.
Her breath caught as she opened it.
Her essay—screenshotted, posted, shared.
With a caption underneath:
"POOR GIRL PITY STORY 😂"
Her fingers went cold.
She didn't need to ask who had done it.
Across the hall, Ariana stood with her friends, phone in hand, watching Mira closely.
Waiting.
Mira lifted her head slowly.
Their eyes met.
Ariana's smile faltered—for just a second.
---
In class, the teacher paused mid-lesson.
"I want to address something," she said, her voice firm. "Someone has shared a private assignment without permission."
The room fell silent.
"This behavior is unacceptable."
Ariana looked away.
Mira sat still, her face calm, her hands folded neatly on her desk.
She didn't cry.
She didn't speak.
And that silence felt louder than any accusation.
---
That evening, Mira walked the long path behind the mansion instead of going inside.
She needed air.
She sat on the low stone wall and stared at the sky, the essay replaying in her mind—not the words, but the memory behind them.
Her phone buzzed again.
This time, a message from an unknown number.
I'm sorry. I didn't know it was yours.
She deleted it.
Apologies that came late were just another form of noise.
---
From an upstairs window, Liam watched her sitting alone outside.
He recognized that posture.
Someone who had learned to endure without witnesses.
He picked up his jacket.
Some lines, he thought, shouldn't be crossed without consequences.