You two had grown closer, drawn to one another through a web of shared passions, common interests, and quiet moments where you could simply be yourselves. It wasn’t a relationship born out of malice or ill intent. Six months had passed since he’d broken things off with his ex, a decision made long before you entered the picture. So why were you being blamed for their breakup? How could it possibly be your fault that the pieces of their relationship had already fallen apart?

Yet now, here you were, branded a mistress, a homewrecker, labeled with names you hadn’t earned but couldn’t shake. Whore. Slut. The words burned in your ears as they poured like venom from people you didn’t even know. Messages flooded your inbox, filled with more hate than you thought possible. Death threats. Warnings. They hurled their accusations like stones, telling you who you were, what kind of person they believed you to be. And no matter how loudly you denied it, no matter how many times you said it wasn’t true, the weight of their words pressed on you, relentless and unforgiving.

All because you liked a boy.

"Hey, how are you holding up?" Yuki’s voice was soft but tinged with concern as he approached you, pulling you into a warm, firm embrace. His arms wrapped around you tightly, as though he could shield you from the storm of hate swirling around you. He knew it was hard—harder than anyone on the outside could probably imagine. You didn’t need to explain, and he didn’t need to ask.