Vanessa's POV
I didn't go to school the next day.
My body said I was tired, but it wasn't exhaustion,it was fear in disguise.
Fear of seeing Alexis.
Fear of hearing a lie in his voice and not knowing whether to believe it.
I stayed in bed until noon, staring at the ceiling like it might write out the answers for me. It didn't. My phone buzzed multiple times, but I ignored it.
I didn't want texts from Alexis, apologies, or vague words wrapped in half-truths.
And I definitely didn't want to see Rose's name flashing across my screen.
But curiosity, like guilt, is a loud emotion.
Eventually, I picked up the phone and opened Alexis' messages.
"Vanessa, where are you?"
"Are you okay?"
"Please talk to me."
"Whatever she said to you… it's not what you think."
I stared at that last one the longest.
How did he know I had spoken to her?
Unless…
He expected it.
Because he knew she was coming.
I walked to school the next day like a ghost wearing my skin. Every step felt heavy. The gates loomed like an entrance to a courtroom, not a place of learning.
As soon as I stepped into the hallway, I saw him.
Alexis.
He was waiting by my locker like always, holding his books to his chest, eyes filled with something I couldn't name hope, maybe. Or dread.
I didn't look at him as I opened my locker.
"Can we talk?" he asked.
I didn't answer. Just grabbed my books.
"Please, Vanessa. Don't shut me out."
His voice was so soft I nearly cracked. But I remembered Rose's words. Remembered the note. Remembered everything.
"You should've told me," I said, staring ahead.
"I know."
"No you don't. You knew she'd come after me. You let me walk into it blind."
His silence said he agreed.
"Did you know she'd bring up the girl?" I asked.
He froze. "She mentioned Claire?"
Claire. So she had a name.
"Yeah. She said you let your mother die. That you hated her. That you… stayed quiet because you wanted it to happen."
"That's not true," he snapped, louder than he meant to. A few heads turned. He lowered his voice. "I never wanted her to die."
"Then tell me what happened. The whole story. Not the version you think I can handle."
He swallowed. "Not here. After school. Please."
I hesitated.
Then nodded.
One last time.
We met behind the library, near the old maintenance door no one used anymore.
He paced before speaking.
"Claire was my best friend," he said. "Before Rose. Before anyone. She was there when my mom was still alive. She was the one who helped me get through the screaming, the late nights, the bruises."
My chest tightened.
"But when the fights got worse between my parents, Claire started begging me to tell someone. The school. The police. Anyone. She said if I stayed quiet, something awful would happen."
"And you didn't listen?"
"I wanted to," he said. "But I was scared. Of what my father would do. Of what would happen to me. I thought… if I said nothing, maybe it would all stop on its own."
He stopped pacing.
"Then the fire happened."
I waited, barely breathing.
"She was right, Vanessa. Claire was right. And she never forgave me for staying quiet. After the funeral, she stopped talking to me. Rose was her cousin. That's how they met."
Everything clicked.
"Rose picked up the hate where Claire left off."
He nodded. "But she took it further. Started spreading stories that I'd wanted my mother gone. That I planned it."
"Did you?" I asked. My voice was small, scared. But I needed to hear the answer.
He looked straight at me, eyes glassy. "No. Never."
The silence between us was long. Not awkward just full of weight.
"She said I'd end up burned too," I whispered. "That you were using me."
"I'm not," he said instantly. "You were the first person who didn't look at me like I was cursed. The first person who cared. Really cared."
I looked away.
"Do you believe me?" he asked.
"I want to," I said. "But I don't know who to trust anymore."
Over the next week, I watched everything differently.
Rose walked past me in the hallway with a smug smile like she knew the war was still going.
Alexis kept his distance, giving me space, though he always glanced at me like he was hoping for a sign.
Even my brothers noticed something was off.
"You okay?" Alex asked one evening while we sat eating rice in silence.
I just nodded.
He didn't press.
But something was building—like a storm gathering behind the calm.
One morning, I found a photo tucked in the pages of my math textbook.
A real, printed photo. Faded but clear enough.
It was Alexis. Younger. Sitting on a porch beside a girl with long dark braids—Claire.
And there, standing in the background, a woman with tired eyes and a bruised arm. His mother.
My stomach twisted.
But on the back of the photo, in tiny scrawled handwriting, were the words:
"He's not the monster. But he watched one for too long."
No note. No signature.
But it wasn't threatening.
It was a warning—and maybe… a cry for help.
That day, during lunch, I found Alexis sitting alone behind the gym, sketching in his notebook.
I walked up without a word and sat beside him.
He looked surprised but didn't say anything.
"I got your picture," I said quietly.
He frowned. "I didn't send anything."
I believed him.
"Someone else wants me to see the truth," I said. "But I think even they don't know what it is."
He closed his sketchbook.
"I've been thinking," he said. "About what Claire said. About how silence makes you just as guilty."
He looked at me. "I don't want to be silent anymore."
I nodded.
"Then let's figure this out," I said. "Together."
That night, as I wrote in my diary, I added a new line:
I still don't know the whole truth. But I know the lies I won't let live.