The rumor didn't explode.
It crept.
By Monday morning, it existed the way fog does—thin, deniable, and everywhere if you looked closely enough. Micheal noticed it first in the pauses. In the way conversations dipped when Teema walked past. In the sideways glances Daniel started getting from people who'd been friendly just days ago.
He hadn't said anything outright.
That was the part that made it dangerous.
All Micheal had done was answer a question he hadn't been asked.
On Sunday night, he'd stayed late at the field, tossing a ball back and forth with Samson. The air had been cool, the kind that made words come out easier than they should.
"You and Teema okay?" Samson asked casually.
Micheal had shrugged, eyes on the ball. "She's dating Daniel."
"Yeah, but—"
"But people don't just switch off feelings," Micheal said. Not bitter. Not accusing. Just… honest. "And not everyone's as solid as they look."
Samson had frowned. "What do you mean?"
Micheal hadn't answered. He didn't need to.
By morning, the interpretation had done the work for him.
Someone mentioned Daniel and Teema arguing at the park. Someone else added that Daniel had a temper. A third person—who'd never even been there—said they'd seen Teema crying last week.
None of it was entirely false.
None of it was entirely true.
Daniel felt it before he understood it.
He sat beside Teema in class, posture stiff, jaw tight. When the teacher called on him, he stumbled through an answer he knew well. At lunch, he poked at his food, eyes tracking the room like he was waiting for something to hit him.
"What's wrong?" Teema asked quietly.
"Nothing," Daniel said too quickly. "Just tired."
But when a guy from the football team passed by and muttered, "Chill out, man," under his breath, Daniel's hand tightened around his fork.
"What was that?" he demanded.
The guy shrugged. "Relax. Just saying."
Teema frowned. "Saying what?"
Daniel pushed back from the table, standing. "I'll be right back."
She watched him go, unease pooling in her chest.
Across the cafeteria, Micheal met Daniel's eyes for a split second.
Daniel looked away first.
Later that afternoon, Daniel found Micheal near the lockers.
This time, there was no politeness to soften the approach.
"You," Daniel said.
Micheal closed his locker slowly. "Me."
Daniel stood too close, voice low. "People are talking."
"People always talk," Micheal replied evenly.
"Not like this." Daniel's jaw flexed. "They're saying things about me. About us."
Micheal tilted his head slightly. "Are they wrong?"
That was the spark.
Daniel's hand twitched, like he wanted to grab Micheal by the collar—but he didn't. He stepped back instead, breathing hard.
"You think you're clever," Daniel said. "You think because you don't say things straight, you're not responsible."
Micheal's expression didn't change. "I didn't start anything."
"But you fed it."
The accusation hung between them.
For the first time, Micheal felt it—the weight of what he'd done pressing against his ribs. Not enough to stop him. Enough to sharpen him.
"I'm not forcing anyone to believe anything," Micheal said quietly. "If people are noticing cracks, maybe they were already there."
Daniel stared at him, realization dawning—not loud, not explosive. Cold.
"This is who you are," Daniel said. "You don't push. You tilt things."
Micheal didn't deny it.
That silence was answer enough.
Teema found them moments later, tension thick in the air.
"What's going on?" she asked.
Daniel turned to her, frustration bleeding through his control. "Ask him."
Micheal met her gaze. He saw the confusion there. The doubt. The beginning of suspicion—not aimed at him, not yet.
"I didn't do anything," Micheal said. And that was true, in the narrowest way possible.
Daniel laughed once, sharp and humorless. "See? This. This is exactly it."
He turned to Teema. "People think I'm bad for you now. That I'm hiding something."
Teema's stomach dropped. "Why would anyone think that?"
Daniel looked at Micheal again. "Because someone's been helping them think it."
Her eyes flicked between them.
"Micheal?" she said.
He held her gaze, steady, calm. "I told the truth. That's all."
"What truth?"
"That you're conflicted," he said gently. "That this wasn't simple for you."
Her chest tightened. "That's private."
"I didn't name you," Micheal replied. "I didn't name him."
"But you meant us."
He didn't answer immediately.
That pause—small, precise—did more damage than a confession would have.
Daniel stepped back, shaking his head. "I knew it."
Teema turned to Micheal, hurt flashing into anger. "Why would you do this?"
He swallowed. For the first time since this began, his voice wasn't perfectly controlled.
"Because pretending didn't work," he said. "And I'm done disappearing."
The words landed wrong. Too honest. Too selfish.
Teema took a step back, as if seeing him clearly for the first time in days. "This isn't fair."
"No," Micheal agreed. "It isn't."
Daniel let out a breath, bitter and exhausted. "So what now? You win?"
Micheal shook his head slowly. "No. This doesn't end like that."
But as Daniel walked away and Teema stood there, torn and shaken, Micheal felt it settle deep in his chest:
The rumor had changed the game.
And even if he told himself he hadn't planned it, some part of him had known exactly what would happen.
He watched Teema leave without following.
Not because he didn't want to.
But because the next move needed time to work.
And somewhere beneath the guilt, beneath the tightening consequences, Micheal understood something he couldn't unlearn:
He was no longer just reacting.
He was shaping the outcome.
-----
Teema didn't talk to him for the rest of the day.
That silence felt different from the others. He could live with distance. He could work with doubt. But this—this was colder. Sharper. Like she was protecting herself from something she didn't want to name yet.
Micheal noticed it everywhere.
She didn't wait for him after class. Didn't glance his way in the hallway. When their paths crossed, her eyes slid past him as if he were part of the background. Not erased—contained.
It stung more than he expected.
By the time school let out, the rumor had finished settling into its shape. People no longer asked questions. They made assumptions. Daniel walked through the halls like someone bracing for impact, shoulders tense, expression guarded. He wasn't being confronted—he was being observed.
That was worse.
Micheal saw him in the parking lot, arguing quietly with one of his friends. The gestures were tight, controlled. Daniel was defending himself now.
He had entered the position Micheal knew too well.
At home that night, Micheal sat on his bed with his phone in his hands, staring at Teema's name. He typed. Deleted. Typed again.
> I didn't mean for it to get like this.
He erased that too.
Meaning didn't matter anymore.
When he finally sent something, it was simple.
> We need to talk.
The reply didn't come.
An hour passed. Then two.
Micheal lay back, staring at the ceiling, his mind replaying the moment in the hallway—the way Teema's eyes had hardened, the way Daniel had looked at him like he'd just uncovered something rotten.
This is what you wanted, a voice in his head whispered.
And another answered, quieter: No. This is what you accepted.
The next morning, he found Teema on the stairs behind the science block, sitting alone with her arms wrapped around her knees. For a moment, he considered turning back.
Then he didn't.
"Teema," he said.
She looked up slowly. Her eyes were tired. Guarded.
"You shouldn't be here," she said.
"I know."
"Then why are you?"
He stopped a few steps away. "Because this ended wrong."
She laughed softly, without humor. "It hasn't ended."
"That's the problem," Micheal replied.
She stood, brushing dust off her skirt. "Daniel thinks you're trying to ruin him."
Micheal flinched. Not because it wasn't true—but because it sounded uglier when said out loud.
"I didn't start a rumor," he said carefully.
"No," Teema agreed. "But you pushed it."
Her voice didn't shake. That hurt more than if it had.
"You always do this," she continued. "You never say what you want outright. You just… nudge things and let everyone else fall over."
He swallowed. "I didn't think you'd get caught in it."
"That doesn't make it better."
Silence stretched between them.
"Do you regret it?" she asked.
The question was simple. The answer wasn't.
Micheal opened his mouth—then closed it again.
He thought of Daniel standing alone. Of the way Teema had looked at him on the field. Of the years he'd spent being careful, waiting, hoping patience would be enough.
"I regret how it's hurting you," he said finally.
She searched his face, disappointment flickering across her expression.
"That's not what I asked."
She stepped past him, leaving the words hanging.
Micheal stood there long after she was gone.
For the first time since he'd decided to fight, doubt crept in—not about whether he could keep going, but about what would be left if he won.
That night, the rumor reached its peak.
Someone posted something vague online. Nothing direct. Just enough to let imagination do the rest. Daniel didn't respond. His silence fed it further.
Micheal watched the fallout from a distance, hands clean in the way that mattered least.
And as he lay awake, phone dark beside him, one truth settled heavy and unavoidable:
He had crossed from wanting her back
to being willing to burn something down to get there.
Whatever happened next wouldn't be reversible.