I wait three days after I decide to speak.
Not because I'm strategizing, or waiting for the noise to die down, or hoping Ryder will reach out first. I wait because I need to be sure that when I open my mouth, I'm not asking for forgiveness.
I'm taking responsibility.
The idea settles in my chest with a strange calm. Heavy, but steady. Like something I've been carrying for years without naming. Like a truth that's been pressing against my ribs, patient but insistent, waiting for me to stop pretending I didn't feel it.
Lila sits at my kitchen table while I pace. She doesn't interrupt. She knows better. She scrolls on her phone, glances up every few minutes, tracking my movement like she's afraid I might disappear if she looks away for too long.
"You don't owe them your blood," she says finally, calm but firm. "Just your truth."
"I know," I reply. "That's what scares me."
Because truth doesn't bargain. It doesn't soften itself to protect your image. It doesn't care how well you're perceived, only whether you're honest.
The document on my laptop is open, cursor blinking patiently. I've written and deleted five versions already. Apologies that sounded like excuses. Explanations that centered my pain too neatly. Sentences that felt polished instead of sincere. Statements that tried too hard to be understood.
Each one failed the same test.
Would I still write this if no one applauded it?
I delete them all.
Then I start again.
I don't mention Ryder's name.I don't mention the article.I don't mention intent.
I write about impact.
I wrote a story inspired by my past, believing fiction would protect the people who lived there with me.
I pause. My fingers hover above the keys. My reflection stares back at me in the dark screen—tired eyes, jaw set too tightly.
I was wrong.
The words feel like stepping off a ledge without knowing if the ground will meet me.
I keep going.
I didn't consider how recognition would affect someone who never chose to be part of this narrative. Someone who had moved on, or tried to. Someone who did not consent to being remembered publicly.
My throat tightens, but I don't stop. I let the discomfort stay. I let it burn.
This book came from a place of honesty, but honesty without care can still cause harm.
I lean back, heart pounding.
There it is. The sentence that matters. The one that doesn't ask to be liked.
I read the statement aloud once. Then again. Each time, it feels less like a performance and more like a confession I should've made years ago. Not to the internet. To myself.
When I finally hit publish, it's quiet.
No dramatic swell of relief. No instant absolution. No sense of being forgiven by an invisible jury.
Just a soft click and the understanding that I've crossed a line I can't uncross.
The response is immediate anyway.
My phone lights up on the counter, screen flashing with notifications I don't touch. Messages, tags, reactions stacking faster than I can process. I don't read them. Not yet. I let them come. Let them pile up. Let the world decide what it wants to do with my words.
Lila watches me carefully. "How do you feel?"
I think about it. About the way my hands are shaking. About the strange clarity behind the fear.
"Like I told the truth," I say. "And that's all I get to control."
Online, reactions fracture in real time.
Some people thank me.Some say it's too late.Some accuse me of protecting myself while pretending to be accountable.
They argue with each other in threads I don't read all the way through. They quote my sentences back at me, rearranged into accusations or praise depending on who's holding them.
I don't respond.
I don't clarify.
I don't defend myself.
For once, I let my words stand alone.
That night, I dream again... but it's different.
I'm back in high school, sitting at my desk, staring at a blank notebook. The bell hasn't rung yet. The room smells like dust and pencil shavings. Ryder passes by in the hallway, laughing with someone I don't recognize. He looks lighter than I remember. Untouched by the weight I carried for both of us.
I stand up this time. My legs shake, but I move anyway. I call his name.
He turns.
The dream ends before he speaks.
I wake up before sunrise, heart aching but clear, like a bruise you finally stop pressing.
The silence from Ryder remains.
No message.No acknowledgment.No sign that my statement reached him at all.
I don't know if it was meant to.
Weeks pass.
The internet moves on, as it always does. The article fades into something less sharp, less urgent. My name stops trending. New controversies replace mine. My publisher asks if I want to do an interview addressing the situation, offering careful phrasing, controlled environments.
I say no.
I keep my head down. I write, but not fiction, not yet. I write essays I don't plan to publish. Pages full of questions instead of answers.
What do we owe the people we loved quietly?Where does ownership of a memory end?Is silence always harm, or sometimes mercy?Can accountability exist without reconciliation?
Some days, I feel lighter. Like I set something down I wasn't meant to carry forever. Other days, I miss him so acutely it feels like grief—sharp, irrational, impossible to explain without sounding like I'm asking for something I no longer deserve.
One afternoon, Lila sends me a screenshot.
It's small. Almost nothing.
A comment under an old post of mine, buried beneath hundreds of others. No profile picture. No verified badge. Just a timestamp and a username that tells me nothing.
Just a sentence.
Thank you for not pretending it didn't matter.
My breath catches.
I stare at the screen for a long time, my pulse loud in my ears. The words don't absolve me. They don't invite me back. They don't even confirm anything.
But they acknowledge something real.
"Do you think it's him?" Lila asks carefully.
"I don't know," I say. And for once, not knowing doesn't feel unbearable. It feels honest.
I don't reply to the comment.
I don't reach out.
I let it exist as it is—unclaimed, unresolved, real.
That night, I sit at my desk and open a new document.
Not a novel.Not a confession.
Just a title.
The Truth Between Lines.
I don't know yet what it will become. I only know that whatever I write next will be quieter. Kinder. More careful. Less interested in being understood and more committed to doing no harm.
And if Ryder ever chooses to speak to me again, I want to be someone who knows how to listen.
The cursor blinks.
This time, I don't rush to fill the silence.