Maria woke up with a dazed softness in her limbs, like she'd just emerged from a dream that lingered on her skin. The memories from the party were foggy but sweet–Liz' hands, her kisses, the heat of that night. She smiled for a moment, still in bed, hugging her pillow.
She has expected things to feel awkward today, maybe even a little tense. But not like this.
The messages started trickling in around 8 a.m.—vague at first.
| "Wow. I didn't think you'd go that far."
| "Is it true?"
| "I thought you were chill but you're messed up."
Confused, she replied to a few. No one responded. A tightness grew in her chest as she scrolled through her phone. Then came the screenshots–cropped, twisted, and shared in group chats. Rumors spreading like wildfire. Her name, her face, her reputation–up in flames.
Maria rushed to campus, eyes scanning for Liz. She needed answers. She needed truth. But before she could even make it to the department block, she heard the voice.
Liz.
Sobbing. Loudly.
Surrounded by a crowd.
Maria froze at the edge, barely visible, heart pounding as she pushed herself closer, step by step, like walking into a storm.
"She forced herself on me!" Liz cried, her voice cracking perfectly, mascara running like war paint.
"I told her I was drunk... I told her no. I trusted her. We were friends. I thought I could feel safe, but she took advantage of me..."
Marie's blood turned to ice.
The words didn't register at first—her brain refused to process them. But everyone else heard. And believed.
"She did what?" someone whispered.
"Maria? The lesbian one?"
"I knew it–she always looked at girls weird..."
Maria stumbled forward, desperate to speak. "Liz? What are you saying–?"
Liz turned to face her then. They tears were still falling, but her eyes–those eyes–were cold. Detached. Almost mocking. "It was just a prank, it was quiet obvious," she said. "You weren't supposed to fall so hard."
Laughter. Some gasps. People staring now, fully. Phones recording. Her heart dropped into her stomach.
"I was drunk, and she took advantage of that!" Liz shouted again, voice rising. "She raped me."
The word hit the air like a bomb.
Maria staggered back, blinking.
"No... no, Liz, we were both– You kissed me. You–" Her voice cracked. No one was listening.
"Don't come near me," Liz snapped, stepping back dramatically, like Maria was some monster. "You forced yourself on me. You're sick! You deserve to die alone."
A girl shouted, "Get help, Maria! You're disgusting!" A guy muttered, "I always knew there was something off about her."
"Predator."
"Slut."
"Lesbian rapist."
Someone threw water at her. Another spit near her feet.
Maria couldn't move. Couldn't breathe. She stood in the middle of the crowd, drowning in a storm of voices, each one slicing into her skin like glass.
No one stopped it.
No one asked for her side.
In that moment, the world decided who she was, and she was powerless to change it.
By evening, her name trended in every student Whatsapp and Telegram group. Every old photo, every rumor, every moment where she looked "too close" to a girl resurfaced as evidence. Everyone believed Liz—she was prettier, softer, richer. Maria didn't stand a chance.
Her friends ghosted her.
Her roommate started locking the door at night.
A lecturer she admired wouldn't meet her eyes anymore.
No disciplinary hearing. No confrontation. Just silent exile.
Days passed in a haze. Maria couldn't eat. Couldn't sleep. Could barely walk around campus without the constant, gnawing weight of shame on her back. Whispers followed her everywhere.
She wasn't just humiliated. She was erased.
And the worst part?
She still didn't understand why.
Was it really a prank?
Did Liz ever mean it?
Was any of it real?
In her quiet moments–when she wasn't crying or shaking or questioning her existence–she asked herself one thing over and over:
How do you survive when the person you lived destroys you–and smiles while doing it?