Chapter 3

My mom stood up.

"Ms. Albright," she said, her voice shaking but clear. "This is inappropriate. If there's a disciplinary issue with my daughter, it should be handled privately with us, her parents."

A few heads nodded in our direction. A low murmur of agreement started to build. For a second, a flicker of hope ignited in my chest.

But Ms. Albright was an expert at controlling a room. She held up a hand, silencing the dissent with a single gesture.

"Mrs. Davis, I appreciate your concern," she said, her tone condescendingly patient. "But this is no longer a private matter. This is about the culture of our school. This is about protecting all of our children from poor influences. Surely you, as a responsible parent, want that as well?"

She had turned it around, framing my mother's reasonable request as an opposition to the school's well-being. My mom, flustered and outmaneuvered, slowly sat back down, squeezing my hand.

"Chloe," Ms. Albright said again, her voice losing its patient facade. It was now a direct order. "The stage. Now."

There was no way out. Slowly, like I was walking to my own execution, I stood up. My legs felt like they were filled with sand. I kept my eyes on the floor as I walked down the aisle, the silence in the auditorium a roaring in my ears. Each step was an eternity. I could feel the curiosity, the pity, the judgment of every single person in that room.

When I reached the stage, she handed me the letter. The paper was cool against my clammy skin.

"Speak clearly into the microphone, dear," she said, her voice a sickly sweet whisper for my ears only. "We all want to hear."

I stood at the podium, the bright stage lights blinding me. I looked out at the dark sea of faces, a faceless mob waiting for their entertainment. I unfolded the letter. The familiar, practiced handwriting seemed to jump off the page.

My voice was a raw, trembling thing when I started to read.

"Chloe," I began, my voice barely a whisper. I cleared my throat and tried again, forcing the words out. "Chloe, I don't know if I'll ever have the courage to say this to your face, so I'm writing it down. I see you. I know most people don't, but I do."

I paused, my throat tightening. This felt like a violation, like I was tearing open Ethan's heart and showing it to the world.

"I see you in the library, tucked away in the corner with a book so big it hides your face, but I see the way you smile when you get to a good part. I see you in the cafeteria, sharing your lunch with Sarah when she forgets hers. I see you in chemistry class, the way your brow furrows when you're working on a difficult problem, and the little spark in your eyes when you figure it out."

A few people in the audience shifted uncomfortably. This wasn't the salacious, gossip-worthy confession they were expecting. It was... gentle. It was sweet. It was painfully sincere.

I could feel Ms. Albright bristling beside me. This wasn't going according to her script. She had expected something crude, something she could easily condemn. This was harder to attack.

So she attacked it anyway.

She stepped forward and cut me off.

"Thank you, Chloe, that's enough for now," she said, taking the letter from my hands. She turned back to the audience. "You see? You see how this happens? The distraction. The obsession. While this young man should have been focusing on his own chemistry homework, he was instead 'observing' Ms. Davis. He was wasting precious mental energy on frivolous romantic notions instead of on his academic responsibilities."

She was twisting his words, turning his quiet affection into a dereliction of duty.

"This is precisely the kind of behavior that leads to slipping grades and missed opportunities!" she proclaimed, her voice filled with manufactured passion. "The kind of behavior I would never tolerate from a truly dedicated student. The kind of student I have raised my own son to be!"

She was so proud, so completely sure of herself. Standing there, using the letter as proof of someone else's failure, while unknowingly boasting about the author himself. The irony was suffocating. She held up her son as the shining example, while in her other hand, she held the evidence of his secret, heartfelt rebellion.