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PLEASE SKIP THIS CHAPTER, IF YOUR SENSITIVE PLEASE.

OLIVIA JUNE

Upon entering my dorm room, I felt a wave of relief wash over me as I realized Jessica was absent, likely at her first class of the day. I settled onto my bed and took out my phone.

Before diving into the chaos of the group chat, I decided to reach out to my mother to reassure her that I was doing fine. Yesterday had been a whirlwind, leaving me no opportunity to return her calls. 

As I opened the student group chat, my heart sank; the situation was far worse than I had anticipated. Reuben had posted a picture of us kissing, and it appeared strikingly real. The post had garnered an overwhelming number of comments—hundreds, in fact.

Scrolling through the comments made me feel nauseous. How could people speak so poorly of me?

*Reuben's caption read: No one dares to touch what is mine; I claimed her yesterday. Jerry, you better back off.*

*One comment said: "Poor Jerry."*

*Another added: "Olivia is a bitch, period."*

With every comment I read, the urge to scream and confront Reuben intensified. I wanted to find him and punch him in the face.

Then another notification pinged in the group.

*Jerry wrote: "I thought she was a sweet girl. I really loved her, but that kiss— that fucking kiss— proved she and Reuben belong together. Good luck."*

Reuben shot back: "Damn right, jerk! If I catch you with her again, I’ll tear you apart. Got that?"

I knew I should close the app, but it felt as if someone was tightening their grip around my heart. I couldn't tear my eyes away from the screen.

A new message appeared.

*Charlotte chimed in: "Did you just kiss my boyfriend, girl? Did you really sign up for your own demise? If you think Danger Reuben is a monster, you don’t know me well. You’ll meet the devil herself."*

I recalled seeing her in the hallway—a goddess figure with slender curves, flowing black hair, dark green eyes, and thin pink lips. 

Was she Reuben's girlfriend? If so, what did he want from me?

Lying on my bed, tears streamed down my face as I questioned what I had done to deserve this. I didn't want to burden my mother with my troubles, so I resolved to sleep and attend classes the following day.

The next morning, Charlotte's words rang true. She had incited students to post derogatory remarks about me in the school chat. As I walked through the halls, I heard them hurl insults at me.

None of it was true.

With every step I took, more students called me derogatory names—bitch, slut, or whatever else they could conjure up.

I thought it might be best to avoid everyone for the rest of the school year and refrain from commenting on any posts, believing that silence would quell the flames of their hatred.

However, they misinterpreted my silence as an invitation to escalate their attacks.

They began writing humorous jabs about teachers on the chalkboard, and whenever a teacher asked about it, they pointed at me. Fortunately, the teachers didn't believe them.

But that was only the beginning. During lunchtime in the cafeteria, someone hacked into my phone, stole a photo of me in my lace bra, and plastered it as a poster with the word "bitch" written across it. Students erupted in laughter as I stepped inside.

After a week of hiding in my dorm, the situation didn't improve; it became more unbearable.

I couldn’t access my I*******m and avoided all comments and posts about me.

I thought perhaps they would grow tired of targeting me, but they had other plans. I couldn’t walk down the hallway without someone calling me a slut, nor could I open my locker without finding notes reminding me of that label.

With the perception that I was their "slut," some boys felt entitled to slap, grab, or touch me as I passed. Each time, I remained silent, gritting my teeth and clenching my fists, trying to walk past them without incident.

Days turned into weeks, and I grew numb. There was nothing I could do to stop Reuben and Charlotte from rallying their followers against me.

They were a cruel couple, and it became evident why Jessica's younger sister had struggled to cope. Fighting back meant more pain and further bullying, as they reigned supreme in the social hierarchy of the school.

Despite enduring such abuse, I tried to shield my mother and most teachers from the truth. Even when I felt like collapsing in the middle of class or considered dropping out, I refused to let that happen. I was determined they would never witness my breakdown; I wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of seeing how deeply they had wounded me.

In the process, I found myself shutting out the one person I cared about most—my mother. Jessica would have wanted to defend me against the students, but I feared what had happened to her sister would repeat itself. To protect her, I distanced myself, even from my closest friend. I would hate myself more if I allowed them to bully her as they had done to both her sister and me.

You may be wondering about my grades and how I managed to cope when so many others succumbed to bullying and let it derail their studies. I did the opposite.

I refused to let my grades slip. I channeled my emotions into my schoolwork. I read, practiced, and completed my assignments on time. I diligently rewrote my notes and reviewed what the teacher had taught us in class. I even started reading novels as an escape from the turmoil surrounding me.

Keeping myself busy with schoolwork became my saving grace.

Although I faced daily harassment and my body was objectified in the school chat, it was not just Reuben; everyone participated in picking apart my appearance as I went from healthy to thin.

It was overwhelming. Despite using my books as a distraction, some days became unbearable. Depending on the severity of the torment I endured, I often found myself alone on my bedroom floor, holding a razor blade I had bought to shave.

My mind was consumed with thoughts of how to make it all stop, how I had ended up in this monster of a school, how I resented Jerry for siding with Reuben rather than believing in me, and how much I missed my mother yet felt unable to share my struggles with her.

In moments of despair, I would drag the blade across my wrists and thighs, watching blood trickle down to the floor, forming new wounds on top of old ones.

In that tumultuous space, books and the blade became my only sources of solace.