I stormed out of Margaret's room without looking back, my chest tight and my head pounding. The door slammed shut behind me, but not loud enough to drown out the rage boiling inside. I had never felt so betrayed, so cornered. And worse—I didn't know what would come next.
Margaret was scared now—finally—but her fear didn't comfort me. Fear didn't erase the video. Fear didn't undo the damage.
Outside, the sky was darkening, clouds drifting in like silent witnesses. The walk back to my hostel felt longer than ever, every step weighed down with thoughts I couldn't push away. Anger. Confusion. Exhaustion.
When I reached the flat, I slid my key into the lock, drew a shaky breath, and pushed the door open.
There she was.
My roommate. Slouched on the couch, eyes glued to her phone, legs crossed like she owned the place. The TV muttered quietly in the background, some show she wasn't even watching. She didn't greet me. Didn't glance up. Didn't care.
Typical.
We hadn't spoken in weeks. No fights. No arguments. Just silence. Two ghosts haunting the same space—same living room, separate rooms, separate lives.
I walked past her like she wasn't there, though I caught the flicker of her eyes lifting to me before darting back down. She always did that—pretended not to notice, but watched when she thought I wasn't looking.
The air was thick. Stale. Heavy.
In my room, I shut the door softly, leaning against it with trembling hands. Not from fear, but from everything collapsing at once. I dropped my bag, kicked off my shoes, pulled off my hoodie in one motion.
Finally, alone.
But the silence screamed.
I collapsed on my bed, staring at the ceiling as my mind spun. Margaret was next. They would call her. Maybe she'd confess. Maybe she'd lie. But one thing was certain—the video had her face in it just as clearly as mine.
Still, I knew how this worked.
They'd dig. They'd investigate. And somehow, it would circle back to me. Someone wanted to see me fall. Mr. Unknown was still out there—silent, watching, moving in shadows.
My phone lit up. No new messages. Just Erica's unread text from earlier: Are you okay?
I hadn't answered. I didn't know how.
I dragged myself to the mirror. Tired eyes. Dry lips. The scars of a day that wasn't even done.
Then—knock, knock.
I froze.
Not Erica. She never came here.
I opened the door slightly.
My roommate stood there. Arms crossed. Phone in hand.
For the first time in weeks, we locked eyes.
"What?" I asked flatly.
She hesitated. "People are saying stuff… about you. About some video."
I narrowed my eyes. "And?"
She shifted. "Just thought you should know. They're not only talking. Some… have actually seen it."
Silence. Then a bitter "Thanks."
But she didn't move. "You know," she added, "you're not exactly quiet either. Always in the middle of something."
I gave a tired laugh. "So that's why you stopped talking to me?"
She blinked. "No. I just don't like fake people."
The words stung sharper than I expected.
I shut the door gently in her face. Locked it. Leaned against it again.
No safe corners.
Not at school.
Not at home.
Not even within the four walls that were supposed to protect me.