Rayan didn't come back the next day either.
By then, absence had a louder voice than presence.
The classroom felt uneven, like something essential had been removed but no one dared acknowledge it. His seat remained empty—untouched, unclaimed. A few people glanced at it, then at me, then away again.
No one asked where he was.
They didn't need to.
Stories traveled faster than truth ever could.
"He's being investigated."
"I heard it's serious."
"They don't just pull someone aside for nothing."
I wrote notes as usual.
Same handwriting. Same posture.
Stillness.
But control had started to ache.
By afternoon, the ache had a name.
The dean's office.
A slip of paper was placed on my desk—formal, polite, unavoidable.
Please report immediately.
No accusations.
No explanations.
Just summons.
The hallway felt longer than it ever had. Each step echoed too clearly, like the building itself was listening. When I reached the door, I paused—only a second—but even that felt dangerous.
Hesitation invited interpretation.
I knocked.
Inside, the air was cooler. Neutral. Carefully impersonal.
Two people sat across from me.
The dean.
And someone I didn't recognize.
"This is a precautionary conversation," the dean said gently. "Nothing more."
I nodded.
The unfamiliar woman studied me—not unkindly, but thoroughly.
"You've been mentioned," she said.
Not accused.
Mentioned.
A strategic word.
"In what context?" I asked.
She smiled faintly. "That's what we're here to clarify."
They asked about my interactions with Rayan.
Frequency. Tone. History.
I answered precisely. No embellishment. No emotion.
Facts were safer than feelings.
"Did you feel pressured by him?" the woman asked.
"No."
"Did he ever make you uncomfortable?"
"No."
The dean leaned forward. "You're very calm about this."
"I don't see panic as productive," I replied.
That was true.
But calmness unsettled people when they expected cracks.
The woman closed her folder. "You're free to go. For now."
For now.
The words followed me all the way out.
Rayan called that evening.
I let it ring once.
Twice.
Then I answered.
"Where are you?" he asked immediately.
Not hello.
Not apology.
Fear.
"At home," I said.
"They talked to you, didn't they?"
"Yes."
A pause. His breath sounded uneven.
"What did you say?"
"The truth."
Another pause. Longer this time.
"You always do," he murmured.
Something in his voice made my chest tighten.
Not relief.
Dependence.
"I shouldn't have dragged you into this," he said quietly.
"You didn't," I replied. "You stepped back. Others filled the space."
"I thought staying quiet would make it pass," he said. "I didn't think—"
"I know," I interrupted.
That was the most dangerous part.
Understanding softened boundaries.
"They're watching me," he admitted. "Everything I do feels… wrong."
I closed my eyes.
This wasn't romance.
This was fracture.
"You don't need me to fix this," I said carefully.
"I do," he replied.
The certainty startled me.
"You're the only one who knows how this really started."
I opened my eyes.
And there it was.
The shift.
Need replacing balance.
"I can't speak for you," I said.
"I'm not asking you to," he said quickly. "Just—don't disappear."
Silence stretched between us.
I realized something then.
He wasn't afraid of punishment.
He was afraid of being alone with the narrative.
"I won't," I said finally.
But even as I spoke, I knew—
That promise had a cost.
The next day, the cost appeared.
Someone leaked the story.
Not the truth.
A version.
Carefully blurred. Conveniently incomplete.
Enough to spark outrage.
Enough to demand consequences.
Messages flooded group chats. Anonymous posts multiplied. Names weren't used—but they didn't need to be.
Everyone knew.
"She's playing innocent."
"He's not the only one at fault."
"Girls like her always act calm."
Girls like her.
I stopped reading.
By lunchtime, Rayan hadn't shown up again.
Instead, his friend found me.
"You should talk to him," he said quietly. "He's not okay."
"I'm not responsible for his stability," I replied.
He hesitated. "He thinks you are."
That landed harder than it should have.
That evening, Rayan showed up outside my building.
Unannounced.
Unsteady.
His eyes were shadowed, exhaustion carved into his face.
"You shouldn't be here," I said.
"I needed to see you," he replied.
Neighbors passed. Curtains shifted.
Risk multiplied.
"They're pushing for a statement," he said. "Something official. If I don't give it, they'll assume the worst."
"And if you do?" I asked.
"They'll want names."
My stomach dropped.
"I won't let them use you," he said quickly. "I just need—guidance."
Guidance.
The word was heavy with implication.
I studied him.
This wasn't the confident boy I'd known.
This was someone cornered.
"If you speak," I said slowly, "you lose control of the story."
"And if I don't?" he asked.
"You lose yourself."
He laughed once—sharp, humorless. "Already happening."
I took a breath.
Every instinct screamed retreat.
But retreat no longer existed.
"You can't rely on me to carry this," I said.
"I'm not asking you to carry it," he replied. "Just… stand close enough that I don't collapse."
The honesty was devastating.
I looked away.
That was my mistake.
He reached for my wrist.
Not forceful.
Desperate.
"I'm scared," he said.
The admission shattered something fragile.
I pulled my hand back—but the damage was done.
Fear had crossed the space between us.
And fear bonded faster than affection ever could.
That night, I didn't sleep.
Because I understood the truth too clearly now.
Silence had shifted power—but it had also created vacuum.
And Rayan was falling into it.
If I stepped forward, I'd be pulled into the fallout.
If I stepped back, he'd spiral alone.
This wasn't about romance anymore.
It was about responsibility.
And responsibility was dangerous.
The next morning, my phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
One message.
We need to talk. Privately. About Rayan.
My chest tightened.
Because I knew—
This wasn't coming from someone who wanted clarity.
This was someone who wanted leverage.
And suddenly, I wasn't sure who the real threat was anymore.