Vanessa's POV
When Alexis told me the truth, something inside me softened.
It wasn't pity. It wasn't even relief.
It was understanding.
We were both survivors, though our scars came from different fires. Mine left bruises on the skin. His carved themselves into silence.
I saw him differently now not as a mystery I needed to solve, but as a person learning how to rebuild from the ashes.
The next morning, he waited for me outside the school gate.
I didn't expect that. Normally, we met by accident passing glances in the hallway, quiet conversations when no one was looking. But now, he was standing there on purpose, holding two cups of hot tea from the corner shop.
"For you," he said, handing one over.
I took it, smiling. "What's the occasion?"
"No occasion. Just... tea."
We walked in together. For the first time, it felt like we were really friends.
People stared. I noticed.
Maybe it was the sight of us together Alexis, the boy who never smiled, walking beside the new girl with the strange bruises and the quiet voice.
Maybe they wondered what we talked about. What secrets we traded in silence.
Let them wonder.
During lunch, we sat outside under the big mahogany tree behind the science block. The sun filtered through the leaves, dappled and warm.
He unwrapped a sandwich and handed me half without asking. I did the same with my bread and egg roll.
"So," I said, chewing thoughtfully, "what happens now?"
Alexis shrugged. "We keep being friends, I guess."
I laughed. "That sounds almost boring."
"You say that like boring isn't safe."
I glanced at him. "Is that what you want? Safety?"
He hesitated. "I want peace."
I nodded slowly. "Me too."
After school, we walked home together. Our paths didn't perfectly align, but we found a middle road that let us talk a little longer.
We didn't say much. But we didn't have to. It was enough to exist beside each other, to know we weren't alone anymore.
When we reached the point where our streets split, he paused.
"Can I ask you something?" he said.
"Sure."
"That night I gave you the cake. You found a note, didn't you?"
I froze.
"I knew the look on your face," he added. "You don't hide things well."
I hesitated. "Yes. I found it."
"Do you still have it?"
I shook my head. "I threw it away."
He looked relieved. "Did you believe it?"
"I did... for a second. Then I remembered who gave me cake on a random Tuesday."
He smiled at that. A real smile.
"That's good," he said. "Because I don't lie to people who matter."
"And I don't run from people who are brave enough to tell the truth."
We stood there for a moment, not quite knowing how to say goodbye.
"I guess I'll see you tomorrow," I said.
"Yeah. Tomorrow."
At home, the silence was louder than usual.
My mother was out probably with some church group or neighborhood gossip session. My brothers were in their room, arguing about a game.
I sat on the edge of my bed and pulled out my diary.
I'd stopped writing for a few days. Maybe because the pain wasn't as sharp anymore. Or maybe because life was starting to feel like something I wanted to live through, not just record.
Still, I picked up my pen.
Dear Diary,
Alexis told me everything. And I told him nothing.
Not yet.
He deserves to know, eventually. But how do I tell someone that my mother thinks love is a threat? That sometimes, being home feels like being hunted?
He carries guilt like it's a second skin. I carry silence like it's armor.
We're not whole.
But maybe we're enough for each other, for now.
The next day, someone shoved my locker closed just as I was about to open it.
I turned sharply. Rose.
"Hey, birthday girl," she sneered.
"That was last month."
"Oh, but your drama keeps celebrating."
I narrowed my eyes. "What do you want, Rose?"
"You really don't get it, do you? Alexis was mine."
"Was," I repeated. "That's the key word."
She stepped closer, too close. "He only pities you. You're just another charity case to him. Like a broken puppy he can fix."
I held my ground. "Then why are you so threatened?"
She scoffed. "I'm not threatened. I'm warning you. People like him don't stay loyal to people like you."
"People like me?"
She looked me up and down. "You know what I mean."
I clenched my fists, but before I could respond, a voice cut in.
"She's not your problem, Rose."
Alexis stood behind her.
She turned, startled.
"Walk away," he said. Calm. Cold.
She looked from him to me, lips curled in disgust, then turned on her heel and left.
He looked at me. "You okay?"
I nodded. "Thanks."
"I should've said something earlier," he murmured. "She's been like that since... everything."
"It's not your fault."
"She's not the only one who thinks that note was true."
I frowned. "What do you mean?"
"Some people think I set the fire. That I killed my mom."
My breath caught.
"But you didn't."
"I know that. And you know that. But some people don't care about truth. They only care about stories."
"Then let them tell their stories," I said. "We'll write our own."
That afternoon, I walked home with a different kind of weight.
I knew what it meant to be labeled. To be whispered about. To carry someone else's version of your life like a curse.
But Alexis and I weren't alone anymore.
We had each other.
And sometimes, that's enough.