Room 316 was always quiet. The kind of quiet that didn't just hush the world outside but also the noise inside your head. Rose stepped in slowly, half-expecting the boy to be gone, but he was still there — sitting on the same windowsill like it was his second home, his notebook open on his lap, pen dancing like it had a mind of its own.
He looked up, and this time, he smiled before she even spoke.
"Hey," he said, his voice low, smooth, almost like a melody. "You came back."
"I didn't really plan to," Rose said with a soft shrug. "Guess I just… needed the quiet."
Stan nodded like he understood. "Room 316 does that. People find it when they need to breathe."
She stepped in and sat across from him on one of the old desks. "You're Stan, right? I think we're both in Ms. Clary's poetry class."
"I am," he said. "You always write in the back row. I've seen your name on your notebook
She stepped in and sat across from him on one of the old desks. "You're Stan, right? I think we're both in Ms. Clary's poetry class."
"I am," he said. "You always write in the back row. I've seen your name on your notebook — Rose."
She laughed softly, surprised he noticed. "Guilty. I like watching people. It's easier to write when you're on the outside."
Stan's gaze lingered on her a moment longer, thoughtful. "You write like someone who's seen more than she says."
Rose hesitated, caught off guard. She looked down at her notebook, her fingers brushing the worn edges. "Maybe," she whispered. "Don't we all?"
He leaned back against the window, light catching the edge of his cheekbone. "Yeah… everyone has demons. Some of us just pretend we don't."
That's when something cracked open in her. The mention of demons — it pulled her backward, toward a name she didn't want to think about. Damon.
Her first everything.
And her first real pain.
She looked at Stan, then down at her trembling hands. "Have you ever… loved someone who made you feel like a fool for it?"
Stan's eyes darkened, but he nodded. "Too much," he said simply.
Rose exhaled, almost relieved. "There was this boy… Damon. He made me believe in something — something real. But it wasn't. He was broken in ways I didn't see. Angry. Confused. He used love like it was a game of control. And when he… when he slept with someone I trusted most, he said it was my fault for not being 'enough.'"
Stan didn't flinch. He just listened.
"People say hurt people hurt people," Rose continued, voice shaking. "But sometimes it's not just that. Sometimes demons don't look like shadows. Sometimes they smile. Sometimes they tell you you're lucky they even chose you."
There was silence after that — not uncomfortable, just full.
Stan finally spoke, gently. "You don't owe anyone forgiveness for their demons. Especially the ones they chose not to fight."
And in that moment, Rose didn't feel so alone.
Just as Stan's words settled into her chest like a blanket over old wounds, her phone buzzed against the desk.
She almost didn't check it, not wanting to break the stillness between them, but something told her to look.
Joe.
Her heart skipped. Damon's best friend. She hadn't spoken to him since... well, since it all broke apart.
She answered, her voice cautious. "Hello?"
There was a pause on the other end. Then Joe's voice came through — heavy, broken, barely holding itself together.
"Rose… I thought you should know. Damon's parents… they were in an accident. A crash on the interstate. They didn't make it."
Time stopped.
She didn't breathe. Couldn't.
"I—what?"
"I'm sorry," Joe whispered. "He's not okay. I just thought... maybe you'd want to know."
The call ended, and for a second, all the blood drained from her face.
Stan was halfway to his feet. "Rose? What happened?"
But she couldn't answer. The guilt surged too fast, too hot. All her words from minutes ago echoed back at her like blades. Angry. Confused. Broken. He used love like a game. And now? Now he was the one shattered.
Without another word, she grabbed her bag and stormed out of Room 316.
Her chest heaved as she pushed into the hallway, eyes glassy with the kind of pain that didn't ask permission. She was walking fast, almost blindly, when she bumped into someone. Strong. Familiar.
Jack.
"Rose?" he said, reaching for her arm. "Are you okay?"
But she shook him off, barely even looking at him. "Not now, Jack," she whispered, and kept walking.
He stood there, stunned. Watching her disappear down the hall like a ghost with a storm inside.
Behind him, his friends leaned against the lockers — Chris and Tunde, the same guys who cheered at every chess match, who stood by him like a loyal audience.
Chris raised a brow. "Again? She's always falling apart, bro."
Tunde scoffed. "I don't get it. You're Jack. You've got sponsors asking about you, people analyzing your openings on Reddit. And you're stuck chasing around a girl who's clearly broken."
Jack didn't answer, his eyes still on the direction Rose had gone.
"She's not even interested in the tournaments," Chris added. "She doesn't care about your world. You need someone who builds you, not drags you into hers. Every time you're late to training, it's because she needed you to talk about her feelings."
Tunde stepped closer. "You know what people are starting to say? That Rose is your only weakness."
That stung. More than Jack wanted to admit.
He clenched his jaw, shoving his hands in his pockets. "She's just going through something."
Chris shrugged. "And you've been going through her drama since the semester started. Come on, bro. You're a genius. She's a distraction."
Jack didn't respond. But their words? They stuck.
And somewhere deep inside, something started to fracture.
The bell rang, classes had ended for the day...
----------------------------------------------------------
Damon's voice was flat, like he'd recited this to himself too many times to still feel it.
"They told me it would make me strong... said it was tradition. They made us swear not to tell anyone. And when I tried to stop—" his voice cracked, "—they'd remind me of everything they did for us. Food. School. Shelter. As if love came with a price."
Rose stared at him, tears stinging her eyes. The world around her blurred. Her breath felt too thin.
"I'm not telling you for sympathy," Damon added quickly, almost ashamed. "I'm telling you because… because I don't want you to hate me for what I became. I didn't know how to stop. And when your mom… offered—" he looked away, disgusted with himself, "—I didn't have the strength to say no. I was already too far gone."
Rose's hands trembled. She didn't know what to say. The anger, the confusion, the betrayal — it all faded into something else. Grief. For him. For the boy standing in front of her who was never given a chance to be just a boy.
She stepped forward and took his hand, not in love, but in understanding. "I don't hate you, Damon," she whispered. "I don't know how to feel right now… but I don't hate you."
He nodded, eyes glassy. "I didn't expect you to come."
"I almost didn't," she admitted. "But I needed to see you. Even if I didn't know why."
They sat in silence beneath the jacaranda tree, its purple petals falling slowly around them like the world was shedding its own sorrow.
And for a moment — just a moment — Rose forgot the chaos, forgot Jack's coldness, Stan's quiet mystery, and even the ache of her past. She was just a girl sitting beside a broken boy, trying to hold the pieces of his story with hands that were already full of her own.
They sat in silence for what felt like forever — not the heavy kind, but something quieter, gentler. The wind rustled the leaves above them, and the sky had dipped into a soft indigo.
Then Damon turned to her, his eyes glassy, tired, but searching. His hand was still in hers, and before Rose could process what was happening, he leaned in.
His lips brushed hers — hesitant, like asking a question.
She should've pulled away. Every thought in her mind screamed confusion. But her heart… her heart was already too full. Of pity. Of loneliness. Of the ache she had been carrying since everything began falling apart with Jack. Since the moment she found out about Damon and her mother. Since the moment her trust stopped having a home.
She didn't stop him. She didn't stop herself either.
The kiss deepened — messy, trembling, a tangle of emotions neither of them had sorted. Her back gently pressed against the cool grass near the overgrown side of the house, hidden just enough by the bushes that swayed in the breeze. And there, in that broken, impossible moment, she gave herself to him.
Her first.
It wasn't what she imagined it would be. It wasn't candlelight or softness or anything a girl dreams of in secret. But it wasn't violent either. It was quiet. Bittersweet. Like two souls clinging to each other to feel anything other than empty.
Afterward, she lay beside him, staring at the stars peeking through the trees. She didn't cry. She didn't speak.
She just felt... wrong.
Not because of Damon — but because a part of her wondered if this meant she never truly moved on from him. And worse… maybe she never really felt anything real with Jack. Or maybe she did, but she was just too broken to hold it properly.
Damon reached for her hand again, silently, and she let him. But her mind was miles away.
Why did I do this?
She wasn't sure if it was guilt, grief, or the ghost of the past that pulled her into him. All she knew was that something had shifted. Something had cracked open.
And for the first time in a long time, Rose didn't know who she was to anyone — not to Jack, not to Damon, not even to herself.