You grew closer over time, drawn in by shared passions and the kinds of love that feel inevitable. His interests mirrored yours, and in those mutual obsessions, you found comfort and connection. It had been six months since he’d broken up with his ex, and yet, somehow, you were painted as the villain in a story you hadn’t written. Why would you be to blame for their breakup? But the whispers grew louder, twisting the narrative until you were no longer just someone who liked a boy—you had become a scapegoat for their failed relationship.

Now, they called you names—harsh, ugly labels that stuck to your skin like burrs. Mistress. Homewrecker. Whore. You were vilified, judged, and punished for simply caring about him. The hate piled up—online messages, anonymous threats, things said behind your back but loud enough for you to hear. The venomous words could fill a truck, and there were enough death threats to make you wonder if someone might really act on them. They told you who you were, over and over, until part of you almost believed it.

But how could something that felt so right—just liking someone, wanting to be close to them—be so wrong in the eyes of others? You never asked to be a part of his past, but now you were drowning in its shadow.

"Hey, how are you?" Lewis’ voice broke through the noise in your mind as he wrapped his arms around you in a tight, reassuring hug. His touch was warm, grounding, though it couldn’t quite dispel the storm of anxiety swirling inside you. He was trying, trying to comfort you, trying to be there for you, but some wounds cut deeper than words could heal.