The walls whispered when I walked past.
They didn't need mouths.
Their eyes said enough.
Pity.
Curiosity.
Judgment.
It had only been a day since my statement.
Just one day.
And somehow, the school already knew.
Not the full truth—of course not.
But enough to make me a headline in my own hallway.
I stepped into class and every conversation paused mid-sentence.
People looked down at their desks.
Pretended they weren't staring.
But they were.
I felt their glances like needles across my skin.
I sat down slowly, my breath steady but shallow.
I told myself I was okay.
But I wasn't.
Not really.
Maya slid into the seat beside me with a scowl on her face.
"They're vultures," she hissed. "Forget them."
I gave her a weak smile.
"I can't. They look at me like I'm broken glass. Like if they touch me, they'll bleed."
"Then maybe they should," she said darkly. "Maybe they should feel what it's like to hurt."
I didn't respond.
Because I didn't want revenge.
I wanted space.
At lunch, I walked slower. Stayed back from the cafeteria doors. My steps hesitated.
Until I saw Aariz at our usual spot by the tree, waving like nothing had changed.
Like the world hadn't shifted under my feet.
Like I hadn't shifted.
I sat beside him, and for a second, we just breathed together.
"People are talking," I murmured.
He nodded. "Let them."
"I didn't tell anyone. I swear."
"I know you didn't."
"Then how—?"
He didn't answer.
He didn't have to.
Some truths have a way of leaking out through cracks you didn't know existed.
Later that afternoon, I found a note tucked into my locker.
Neatly folded. No name.
I stared at it for a while before unfolding the paper.
The handwriting was clean. Careful.
"I believe you."
"I went through it too."
"You're not alone."
My fingers trembled as I held the note.
Someone else in this building understood.
Someone else had survived.
And suddenly, the whispers didn't feel as loud.
Because behind them… there was also silence.
And in that silence, solidarity.
Mrs. Langley picked me up from school that day.
She asked me how it went, and I hesitated.
"I think I'm famous," I muttered.
She frowned. "For what?"
"For something I never wanted to be known for."
She didn't try to fix it. Didn't offer clichés.
She just said, "Then make them remember your strength, not your scars."
That night, I couldn't sleep again.
Not because I was scared.
But because I was thinking.
About the note.
The whispers.
The girl—or boy—who left it.
What if there were more of us?
More who never spoke?
More who chose silence because the world never felt safe enough to listen?
What if my voice could help them?
I sat at my desk and opened my journal.
But I didn't write just for me this time.
I wrote for them.
"If you're reading this and your story sounds like mine—this is for you."
"You're not crazy. You're not dirty. You're not weak."
"The person who hurt you doesn't get to own your name, your worth, or your future."
"You don't owe anyone your trauma. But if you ever speak, I hope the world hears you louder than it hears your fear."
"You survived. And that is something no one can take away."
I didn't stop writing for an hour.
When I finally did, I closed the journal, took a photo of the page, and emailed it anonymously to the school newspaper's inbox.
No name.
No title.
Just a truth that needed to be read.
The next day, the post went live on the school's site.
And everything changed again.
In second period, people didn't stare.
They nodded.
Some even smiled—softly, supportively.
By third period, two girls passed me a sticky note.
"We saw the piece."
"Thank you."
By lunch, five more came.
Silent hugs. Fists bumped. Eyes met mine with something I hadn't seen in weeks.
Respect.
Not because I suffered.
But because I spoke.
Aariz met me at the tree again.
He handed me a granola bar without a word.
I laughed. "That's it? No dramatic speech?"
He smiled. "You already said everything worth saying."
After school, Maya grabbed my arm.
"Okay," she said. "Tell me the truth."
"What truth?"
"You submitted that post to the paper, didn't you?"
I paused. "What makes you think it was me?"
She raised an eyebrow. "Come on. That kind of raw honesty wrapped in perfect grammar? It screams Lina."
I blushed. "Maybe."
"Just so you know—people are starting to wake up. I heard a guy from Year 12 say he's reporting something from home. Said your post gave him courage."
My breath caught.
"That's real?" I whispered.
Maya nodded.
"You're changing things, Lina. One sentence at a time."
That night, I didn't write in my journal.
I just held it.
Because for the first time since I was thirteen, I didn't need to hide in the pages.
I was already being read.
My phone buzzed.
A message from an unknown number.
"You probably don't remember me. We were in year 8 together."
"But I read your post. I wanted to say… you gave me something I lost."
"Hope."
I stared at the screen, stunned.
Then I typed back:
"You're not alone."