By third period, I'd almost convinced myself things might be okay.
Not perfect. Not fairy-tale. But okay.
I'd made it through English without crying, math without screaming, and gym without breaking anyone's nose. For a girl whose life had been blasted on social media two weeks ago, that was progress.
Then fourth period happened.
Fourth period was Media Studies, which I thought might actually be cool—cameras, editing, maybe making something that wasn't a TikTok about cheating.
I was wrong.
The classroom was long and narrow, half desks and half computers, posters about "digital literacy" on the walls. A girl with purple braids and sharp eyeliner sat at the front near the teacher's desk, phone in hand, her fingers flying.
"Phones away in two minutes," the teacher called. "Finish whatever apocalypse you're starting."
I dropped into an empty seat near the middle. A few heads turned—some curious, some bored, some already over me.
"Yo," the boy in front of me whispered, twisting in his chair. "You Jayla?"
I narrowed my eyes. "Depends who's asking."
He grinned. "Mason. I'm cool. I film dumb skate videos. I don't care about your drama."
Relief loosened a little knot in my chest. "Nice to meet you, Mason-who-doesn't-care-about-my-drama."
He laughed, about to say more, when purple-braids girl suddenly shot to her feet at the front of the room like she'd been electrocuted.
"Oh. My. God," she gasped, phone clutched in both hands.
The whole class turned.
"What?" someone asked.
"Y'all," she said, spinning the phone around so the nearest students could see the screen. "You need to see this right now."
My stomach dropped.
Please let it be a cat video. Or something about a rapper getting canceled. Or literally anything that isn't—
"Is that Dan?" a girl near the front said. "From San Ángel?"
I froze.
No.
Purple-braids started walking slowly down the aisle between the desks, like she was doing a runway show with my ruin playing on a tiny screen.
On instinct, I slouched in my seat, pulling my jacket tighter around me.
"Let me see," someone snapped. "Move, Tia."
"That's her," someone else whispered. "That's Makayla too. Oh nah."
I squeezed my eyes shut for half a second.
I knew that tone.
That mix of disgust and excitement.
Tia reached the middle row. The boy next to me leaned in, eyes wide.
"Yo," he breathed. "They wild for this."
I didn't want to look.
Of course I looked.
Over his shoulder, the phone screen glowed.
First frame: Dan's face in a dim bedroom, the familiar pattern of his old San Ángel comforter behind him. He looked smug, like he always did when he thought he was in control.
The caption at the top read: Storytime: The Truth About My 'Crazy' Ex.
I didn't need to hear the audio to know what was coming.
My heart started pounding anyway.
"Turn it up," someone said.
Tia obliged.
Dan's voice filled the classroom.
"—not usually the type to do this," he was saying, the fake humility making my skin crawl. "But since she wants to tell half the world I cheated when that's not what really happened…" He shrugged at the camera. "We're gonna set the record straight."
"You posted about her first," I muttered under my breath.
Mason glanced back at me, surprise flickering in his eyes.
Dan went on, words dripping with practiced sincerity. "She was always jealous. Always insecure. Checking my phone, accusing me of things. She moved away and next thing I know? She's hooking up with some older dude in Brooklyn. Like, literally days after we broke up. But I'm the cheater?"
He laughed into the camera.
Makayla appeared a second later, leaning in from off-screen, her hair in perfect curls, lip gloss shining.
"I never wanted to say anything," she cooed. "But honestly? Some girls like to play victim while they're doing dirt. We all saw how fast she moved on. She called me a snake, but who's the one sleeping with their stepdad's worker in a mansion?"
Gasps rippled through the classroom.
Even people who didn't know me turned to stare.
Heat crawled up my neck, into my face, down my spine.
"He's not—" I started, voice shaking, then shut my mouth.
This was exactly what they wanted.
Fuel.
Tia cleared her throat dramatically. "Part two drops in like an hour," she announced. "He said he got 'receipts.' I'm waiting."
A few people laughed.
Ms. Torres, our teacher, finally stepped in. "Okay, that's enough," she said sharply. "Phones away. Now. We're not doing this in my class."
There was some grumbling, but screens went dark. The air stayed thick, buzzing with the unsaid.
Ms. Torres's gaze swept the room, lingering on me for a second.
"You alright?" she mouthed.
I forced a nod I didn't feel.
I wasn't alright.
I was drowning.
The rest of the period passed in a blur.
Ms. Torres started a lecture about media manipulation and narrative framing—ironic, really—but her words floated over me like static. All I could see was Dan's face. All I could hear was Makayla's voice.
Who's the one sleeping with their stepdad's worker…
I'd barely told Seraph and Niqua what happened with Miles.
Now strangers knew.
Knew enough to twist it like a knife.
When the bell finally rang, I bolted.
"Jayla!" Mason called after me. "You good?"
I didn't answer.
I pushed through the crowded hallway, ignoring the looks, the whispers.
"Is that the girl from the video?"
"Damn, she bold showing up after that."
"Lowkey, I feel bad for her."
My throat burned.
I ducked into the nearest bathroom, grateful to find it empty.
The door swung shut behind me.
Silence.
For a second, I just stared at myself in the mirror.
Same hoops. Same dark hair. Same ocean eyes.
Different target.
My hands shook as I grabbed the edge of the sink.
"Three minutes," I whispered to myself. "You get three minutes."
The first tear fell before I wanted it to.
Then another.
Then I couldn't stop.
It was like something had cracked open, all the hurt and humiliation and rage I'd been holding back pouring out all at once.
I pressed the heels of my hands into my eyes, like I could push it all back in.
"Hey."
The door creaked.
I spun around, scrubbing my cheeks roughly.
Seraph stood in the doorway, one hand still on the handle, her eyes sharp and soft at the same time.
"I knew I'd find you here," she said.
I tried to smile. It came out crooked. "How'd you—"
She held up her phone. "Tia's video hit the group chat," she said. "I sprinted from Chem. Ms. Lopez almost threw a beaker at my head."
A broken laugh escaped me.
Seraph dropped her bag on the floor and crossed the room in three long strides. She didn't ask permission; she just wrapped her arms around me and pulled me in.
For a second, I went stiff.
Then I melted.
"You're okay," she murmured into my hair. "You're okay, Jay. They're clowns."
"It's not okay," I mumbled into her shoulder. "They're lying. They're twisting everything. They're—"
"Scared," she cut in. "Scared of you moving on, of you not needing them. That's what this is. Last gasp power move."
"He called me crazy," I said. "In front of his little fanbase. Makayla called me a hoe. They're acting like I left for a man, like I cheated first. They're—" My voice broke. "They're making me into the villain in a story they wrote."
Seraph pulled back just enough to look me in the eye.
"Listen to me," she said. "They don't get to tell your story. Not here. Not anymore."
I snorted, wiping at my face. "You sound like Ms. Carter."
"Ms. Carter's right," she replied. "And so am I. You know why?"
"Why?" I muttered.
She smiled, fierce and bright. "'Cause unlike them, I actually like you."
A weak laugh slipped out.
The bathroom door opened again.
Niqua slid in, breathing hard like she'd run a marathon. Her curls were a little frizzy, mascara slightly smudged.
"Sorry, some freshman was doing their whole existential crisis in the other bathroom," she panted. "Took forever to get in."
She took one look at my face and swore under her breath.
"Oh, hell no," she said. "They really did this in front of the whole class?"
I nodded, shame pricking behind my eyes again.
Niqua rolled up invisible sleeves. "Okay. First of all, Dan's video editing is trash. I saw the clip. He jump‑cuts like a twelve-year-old. Second, Makayla needs to worry less about your life and more about her edges. Third…" She stepped closer, her voice softening. "You know you don't owe anyone an explanation, right? Not them. Not this school. Nobody."
"They're telling one side," I said. "Their side."
"Then we tell yours," Seraph said.
I blinked. "What?"
She shrugged. "You hear what we're learning in Media Studies? Narrative, perspective, who controls the lens. You don't have to play defense. You can play offense."
"You want me to… make a video?" I asked, incredulous.
Niqua nodded slowly. "Not like theirs," she said. "Not some messy reaction where you look like they got to you. But something real. Something that shows who you are here. Now. Not who you were there."
"I don't want to feed it," I said. "I don't want to give them more to twist."
"Then don't address them directly," Seraph suggested. "Talk to the people who matter. Your followers. Your family back home. The girls who've been in your shoes. Flip it."
"You think anyone will listen?" I whispered.
Seraph's gaze burned. "They're already listening. You don't get to choose that. But you do get to choose what they hear."
Niqua nodded. "And whatever you decide, we're with you. If you want to ignore it, we'll distract you so hard you forget your own @. If you want to speak, we'll hold the camera, fix your hair, and fight anyone in the comments."
A shaky breath left my lungs.
I looked at them—this girl I'd known four days and this girl who'd stayed when my oldest friend turned her back—and something in me settled.
"Okay," I said. "Not today. Not right now. But… maybe after school. At my place. Just us."
"Say less," Seraph said.
Niqua grinned. "We'll give Brooklyn the real tea."
The bell rang distantly.
"We're late," I realized.
"Let them mark us tardy," Seraph said. "There are more important things than roll call."
Niqua looped an arm through mine. "Come on, ocean girl," she said, mimicking Miles without knowing it. "Time to make an entrance. Sans tears."
I snorted. "I hate you both."
They flanked me on either side as we stepped back into the hallway.
People still stared.
They always would.
But this time, when I walked, I wasn't alone.
By the time the final bell rang, I was exhausted.
The whole day had been a weird mix of normal and not—teachers taking attendance like nothing had happened, classmates side‑eyeing me like I was a walking spoiler alert.
I survived Chem. Survived History. Even survived some boy in the stairwell asking if I was "actually single now" and Seraph threatening to throw him down the steps.
As I shoved my books into my locker at the end of the day, my phone buzzed.
Miles: Out front.
Just seeing his name steadied my breathing.
Me: Be there in 2.
I closed my locker and turned.
Makayla was standing three feet away.
My heart lurched.
She hadn't been in any of my classes. Part of me had hoped she'd magically transferred to another state.
No such luck.
Her hair was perfect, of course. Outfit on point. Lip gloss shining. Phone in hand like a weapon.
"Jayla," she said.
"No," I replied automatically.
Her eyebrows shot up. "What?"
"No," I repeated. "Whatever you came to say? No. You used up your quota of words two months ago."
She flinched, then rolled her eyes. "Can you stop being so dramatic? I just wanted to—"
"What? Explain?" I cut in. "You already did. To the whole internet. You and Dan both. Congrats on your little collab."
"That wasn't about you," she insisted. "It was about the truth."
My laugh was sharp. "Whose truth? The one where you were 'confused' and 'lonely' so you fell on his mouth? Or the one where I'm the crazy ex who moved for a man?"
A few kids loitering near the lockers went still, ears clearly tuning in.
"I saw you with him," she said, voice rising. "With Miles. You didn't even wait. We weren't wrong."
I stepped closer, my voice dropping.
"You saw a three‑second clip of my life and decided that made you god," I said. "But you weren't in my DMs when Dan started treating me like an option. You weren't there when I cried myself to sleep. You weren't there when I packed my whole life into four suitcases because my mom got a chance at something better. You weren't there for anything that mattered. You only showed up when there was something to take."
Color rose in her cheeks. "That's not fair," she snapped. "You left me first. You got a new city, a new house, a new 'family' and you forgot about me. What was I supposed to do? Sit around and wait?"
My chest tightened.
There it was.
The part of her that had loved me, once.
Before she learned how to talk in hashtags and half‑truths.
"You were supposed to be my friend," I said softly. "Not my replacement."
For a second, her face crumpled.
Then her jaw set.
"Friends don't disappear," she said.
"Friends don't kiss their best friend's boyfriend," I shot back.
We stared at each other, the hallway buzzing faintly around us.
"I hope your little Brooklyn rebound is worth it," she spat. "When he leaves, don't come running back to me."
"Don't worry," I said. "I won't."
She scoffed and spun on her heel, stalking down the hallway.
My hands trembled.
I inhaled slowly, then exhaled.
"Hey."
I turned.
Mason was leaning against the lockers a few feet away, arms crossed, expression unreadable.
"You good?" he asked.
I swallowed. "Define 'good.'"
He shrugged. "Not on the floor? Not throwing hands? That's a solid start."
A reluctant laugh escaped me.
"Look," he said, straightening up. "For what it's worth? Most people here don't care as much as you think. They'll talk for a week and then move on to the next train wreck. That's just… how it is."
"Comforting," I muttered.
He smiled. "You want some real advice?"
"No," I said. "Tell me anyway."
"Find your people," he said simply. "Everyone else is just noise."
Before I could respond, my phone buzzed again.
Miles: HONKING IN 30 SECONDS.
I sighed. "That's my… ride," I said.
"Your chaos," Mason corrected.
"Same thing," I replied.
The second I stepped outside, I saw it.
The red Lamborghini at the curb.
And Miles leaning against it, one ankle crossed over the other, scrolling his phone like he wasn't the most extra person in a five‑block radius.
A few underclassmen walked by, whispering.
"Is that her man?"
"He's fine."
"I heard he's, like, twenty‑five."
"He's twenty‑three," I muttered under my breath.
He looked up as I approached.
His eyes skimmed my face once, cataloguing every micro‑expression.
"You okay?" he asked.
"Stop asking me that," I said automatically.
He raised an eyebrow. "You want me to stop caring?"
"No," I admitted.
He nodded once. "Then I'm not gonna."
My throat tightened.
I sighed, rubbing my temples. "Dan posted a video. Makayla joined. Kids in my class watched it. Someone literally did a live reaction in the middle of Media. I cried in the bathroom. Seraph and Niqua found me. Makayla tried to talk at my locker. It was… a lot."
He pushed off the car, stepping closer. "Did she touch you?"
I blinked. "What?"
"Makayla," he said. "Did she put her hands on you?"
"No," I said. "Just her words."
He exhaled slowly. "Alright. That, I can leave alone."
His jaw was clenched, though. His hands tight at his sides.
"I hate that they're dragging you into this," I said. "You didn't ask for any of it."
He snorted. "I asked for you," he said. "The rest is… package deal."
Warmth flickered in my chest.
"Get in the car," he said suddenly.
I narrowed my eyes. "Why?"
He jerked his chin toward the passenger side. "Because if we stand out here any longer, I'm going to say something reckless to a teenager and get banned from school property."
"Fair," I said.
We got in.
For a second, we just sat there, the engine off, the noise of the street outside muffled by closed doors.
"What do you want to do?" he asked.
"Go home," I said. "Seraph and Niqua are coming over. We're… gonna maybe film something. Or not. I don't know yet."
He nodded. "You want me there or gone?"
I thought about it.
I pictured him hovering, worrying, trying to fix things he couldn't fix with his fists.
"I want you there," I said slowly. "But not in the room. If that makes sense."
He smiled faintly. "Couch duty."
"Guard dog," I corrected.
"Same thing," he replied.
He started the engine.
As we pulled away from the curb, I watched the school shrink in the side mirror.
It looked different than it had that morning.
Less like a monster.
More like a battlefield.
And for the first time, I didn't feel like the only one bleeding on it.
I had Seraph. I had Niqua. I had Mason's unexpected advice.
And I had Miles.
Messy, ridiculous, overprotective Miles, who liked me enough to get punched in the face for me and still show up with hot chocolate in the morning.
"Hey," he said quietly as we turned onto our street.
"Yeah?"
"When you decide what you want to say," he said, "or if you decide you don't want to say anything at all… that's your story. Not theirs."
I nodded, staring at my reflection in the window.
Same hoops. Same eyes.
New girl.
New chapter.
The ocean inside me surged, then steadied.
"I know," I said.
And for the first time, I almost believed it.