The next morning, the air in the halls carried a strange hush. Whispers followed Gemma the moment she stepped through the doors, but she didn't falter. Gabriel walked beside her, his books tight against his chest, stealing glances at her like he was waiting for her to crumble—or for her to finally do something.
She didn't.
When the bell rang, Miss Aveline was already in the classroom. She stood at the front like she had been waiting all night just to perform this moment. Her dress was darker today, her hair pinned in a sharp twist, her smile too controlled.
"Good morning, class," she said, voice sweet and cutting at once. "I thought we'd begin with something… unusual."
The students exchanged wary glances. Aveline walked slowly between the rows of desks, her heels clicking in a rhythm that felt deliberate.
"Today," she continued, "you'll each write a confession. Something no one else knows. Something you've kept hidden. Fold it. Place it in this box. I won't read them aloud—" here, her lips curled, "—unless I have to."
Uneasy laughter rippled. Pens scratched reluctantly. Gabriel hesitated, staring at the empty page before him. The word confession echoed in his mind. He thought of Gemma in the kitchen last night, the folded paper she'd hidden. His stomach knotted.
When Aveline reached Gemma's desk, she stopped.
Gemma's notebook was closed, untouched.
"Not writing?" Aveline asked softly, but the softness carried steel. The whole class stilled.
Gemma raised her eyes slowly. No expression. No movement.
"Very well," Aveline said after a long pause, though her smile didn't reach her eyes. "But silence," she leaned close enough for only Gemma and Gabriel to hear, "is also a confession."
Gabriel felt his pulse hammer. He wanted to shout, to stand, to tear the smug curve off her face—but Gemma didn't react. She just sat, a statue carved from quiet.
Aveline straightened, collecting slips into the wooden box. She lingered by Gabriel, her fingers brushing too close to his as she took his folded page. Her gaze lingered on him, sharp and knowing.
The rest of the class fidgeted, whispering nervously. Aveline placed the box on her desk with a tap of her nails.
"Secrets," she said, looking around slowly, "have a way of speaking when we refuse to." Her eyes flicked deliberately back to Gemma.
The bell rang, but no one rushed to leave. They waited for her dismissal, like prey under the stare of a predator.
Finally, she smiled. "That will be all."
Chairs scraped. Papers rustled. Students filed out.
Gemma stood slowly, her hand resting on her notebook. For the first time, Gabriel noticed her grip trembling, almost imperceptibly.
Then, as she lifted the book, her eyes flicked briefly to Aveline's desk—the box of confessions sitting there like it was breathing. Her stare lingered one second too long, cold and unreadable, before she turned and walked toward the door without a sound.
Gabriel followed, but in that small pause, he saw it. Not fear. Not anger. Something else. A weight. A decision waiting.
And Aveline had seen it too.