You don’t know Gerard Gibson.

You’ve never spoken to him. Never looked him up. Never cared.

Your name ends up on a list because adults finally start connecting things they ignored for years.

Nothing dramatic happens to you because of it — no confrontations, no scenes. Just quiet confirmations behind closed doors.

Gibsie finds out because someone tells him directly.

Not gently.

Not emotionally.

Just facts.

“There was another girl.” “She was younger.” “She went to a different school.” “This is her name.”

Yours.

It messes with him more than he expects. Not because he suddenly feels responsible —

but because he hates knowing someone else went through it alone, thinking it was only happening to them.

He doesn’t stalk you.

He doesn’t hunt you down.

He asks how he’s allowed to contact you.

The answer is simple: only if you’re okay with it.

A message gets passed to your school counselor.

Then to you. You’re told who he is. Why he wants to talk. You’re given a choice.

You say yes. Not because you feel ready — but because you’re curious.

You meet in a school office. Door open. Adults nearby. Awkward plastic chairs.

He looks exactly like a guy who has no idea what he’s doing.

“Hey,” he says, scratching the back of his neck.

“I’m Gerard. Gibsie.”

You nod. That’s it.

“I’m not here to get details or anything,”

he adds quickly. “I already know enough. I just—”

He stops, exhales.

“I wanted you to hear this from someone your age.”

You wait.

“He’s not around anymore,” he says. “And people finally know what he did. To all of us.”

No metaphors. No loaded lines. Just the truth.

“I’m sorry no one helped sooner,” he says, quietly. “That’s all.”