Page 4

Veronica

V eronica’s locker door swings open, its hinges groaning loudly down the hallway.

With her headphones latched into her ears—no music, no distraction—she feels only the hollow buzz of her own thoughts as her fingers move mechanically over the spine of books.

She’s searching for her mathematics notebook. Maybe there’s a chance she may see it tucked between her chemistry and biology textbooks, if her mind is clear and present.

Though still searching, words from nearby invade her thoughts. The three girls, five lockers away, caught her attention earlier. Their judging glares like they were piercing her. Yet, she reduced them to mere shadows. But now, their voices are growing louder, as if they purposely want her to hear their opinions about her.

“I can’t believe she actually came back here.”

“I know, right? So shameless.”

“She had sex with Mr. Petrakis and then betrayed him without hesitation.”

“How incredibly awful does one need to be to ruin someone’s livelihood?”

A wave of nausea washes over her. Her stomach clenches, and bile creeps up her throat. A heaviness presses down on her chest, knuckles white from clutching hard on the textbook she has finally found.

Close your eyes.

Breathe.

Release.

A long breath whooshes from her, its sound bouncing off the hall’s walls. She hopes their words will dissolve into nothingness, but that’s an expensive wish because the words are nothing but the truth and this truth will haunt her for as long as Ian Petrakis’s name remains soiled.

The girls’ footsteps finally disappear down the hall and she slams her locker shut.

Then there he is, leaning against the locker next door, arms folded, a casual, youthful grin on his face.

Just like the previous occasion she was near him, his dark skin stays smooth like onyx, dimples deep enough to create shadows on his face, and teeth white enough to resemble pearls.

Even though she’s already drowning in a suffocating mess, blush still creeps up her cheeks.

Banks Awolowo.

Banks comes from a long line of royals in his homeland. The red beaded bracelet constantly present on his left wrist is apparently a significance of his kingship. And he always wears it, as far as Veronica knows.

“Hi there,” he says slowly, his deep voice hinting at a playful, lighthearted tone.

A fleeting memory surfaces; a time before Ian Petrakis, when only Banks caused Veronica’s anxiety, unlike other boys who were insignificant. She liked him, although she tried hard to not make it obvious, and he liked her too. But the emergence of Ian relegated Banks to the background, regardless of his efforts to stay in her sight.

Now he is here again. Like he always is.

Adjusting the books in her arms, Veronica tucks a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “Hey, Banks.”

“So…is it finally my turn to have some of your time, or am I out of luck?” He asks, his dark brown eyes almost hopeful.

Perhaps a relationship with Banks can last until college—or even beyond. Maybe he will marry her. From a homebound slave to achieving royal status. What could possibly be better? Well, Banks does say he won’t end up as the king, though. There are a string of others before him. But she would be a princess, at minimum, right?

“Not today, Banks.” She shakes her head, exhaling a soft laugh.

A tiny flash of disappointment almost goes unnoticed in his eyes, and he hums, studying her for a few seconds. It’s like he is searching for a crack in her armor. If so, he won’t be able to find it, though. This dance has been a part of Veronica’s life for a considerable time.

“Well,” he exhales, leaning off the locker, running a hand through his buzz cut. “Can’t say I won’t try again, though.” Then he flashes her a charming smile and a wink.

Veronica shakes her head, unable to fight off the small, but genuine smile creeping up her lips. She watches him stride down the hall until he disappears behind a curve.

She fixes her headphones back on—music on this time—and begins to walk to her class.

Fortunately, she’s able to avoid further encounters. The hallway is nearly deserted. But the little celebration is short-lived as the moment she reaches the entrance of math class, she is hit by the sense of déjà vu.

Her eyes fall on Ian’s desk, and her breath stills immediately. And no matter how hard she fights it, her gaze remains pinned on it, the image burning into her mind.

For a second, she swears she sees a piece of gum stuck on the wood, the memory fresh as though it happened a second ago—when she took out her gum to kiss him before any student could walk in.

She no longer has control over her mind as more memories keep slamming into her like flash photography.

She has her legs draped over his lap, her head resting against his chest. There’s silence, but it is the kind that feels safe.

She feels it, the brush of his fingers tracing circles. And he whispers, so low she barely hears it, ‘You’ll be okay. I promise.’

“Out of the way, man!” A hard bump against her shoulder jolts her back to reality. The boy that shoves past her barely spares her a glance, a wave of sandy blond hair disappearing into the crowd.

Her blood turns to ice when she finally realizes that the entire class is now looking at her.

Whispers.

Snickers.

Their eyes are like knives.

Ignore them.

Veronica takes in a sharp inhale, clench her hands tighter around her books, and heads for her desk. But something isn’t right.

Crumpled sheets litter her desk like discarded trash, slur and derogatory words scrawled across her table’s surface in bold, ugly black marker.

Slut.

Whore.

Bitch

How much to suck my dick?

Her throat tightens, the corners of her eyes itching. But she doesn’t let herself physically waver as she bends down and picks up one of the crumpled sheets.

Unfolding it, she finds a sharp scrawl in red ink.

‘Kill yourself, why don’t you?’

Her breath catches, fingers tremble as she staggers a bit. And in a brief, bitter moment, she thinks; Believe me, I have tried. It just didn’t work.

Her jaw clenches, her fist tightening around the paper before she crushes it back into a ball and tosses it across the room.

She is determined not to give them the satisfaction of seeing her break or run. So, placing her books on the now disfigured desk, she sits, turning their words into a background buzz.

Several minutes pass, and the door finally swings open. But it isn’t Ian Petrakis. It’s a teacher Veronica doesn’t know.

It is not the same man that used to sit behind her desk.

The reality of her mistake hit her again like a storm. Her hands clench the edges of the table, and something stings behind her eyes.

What has she done?

How could she have done this?

Why did she lie and steal Ian’s life from him?

The guilt weighs her down, the wall far too close now.

The stares, the whispers, the weight of it all, presses down, suffocating her. And before she can stop herself, she abruptly rises to her feet, her hip knocking against the edge of her table, but the sharp pain that zaps through her is nothing compared to the invisible noose tied around her neck right now.

She needs to get out of here.

She needs to find Shiro.

And maybe Ian.

The sharp scent of grass and sweat clings to the air, mixed with the echo of shouts and laughter of boys whose blood has been charged with adrenaline.

Veronica doesn’t step onto the field. She sits there by the bleacher, which is cold beneath her, but she barely registers it. Her arms rests on her knees, her fingers twitching, scratching, pinching.

There are no tears. But her eyes burn, red-rimmed… unfocused .

Shiro doesn’t notice her. But someone else does after about ten minutes. One of his teammates—Gerald? He briefly glances at the bleacher and spots her. He frowns, confused, then nudges at Shiro before throwing a small nod in Veronica’s direction.

Shiro turns, confused at first. And when the realization hits him, the soccer ball in his hand rolls off, abandoned on the grass. He jogs over to her, his movements quick and urgent.

He stands near her, winded after running. But Veronica doesn’t react. She doesn’t move.

She has her black arm warmers rolled up—the ones she always wears long enough to cover her scars, even though the style clashes with the school uniform. Her nails dig into the scars—scratching, pinching, tugging at the stitches from two days ago.

A tremor runs through her fingers, her lips pressed tight to keep them from shaking.

Shiro breathes a curse, then mutters, “I’m coming.”

In a second, he is back on the field again. She watches as he jogs to his team, speaking animatedly—an apology, maybe. And before she can blink, he is back again, lifting her up and leading her away from the field.

The knock on the door persists, but each one keeps echoing into silence, and Veronica is relentless.

With her fist clenched again, she places another one, her knuckles burning.

No answer still.

She steps back, arm crossing over her chest as she stares at Ian’s apartment door. But there is nothing. No footsteps. No sound.

No sign that he is even inside. Just like how there is no sign that he is receiving her calls or seeing her texts.

Shiro exhales behind her, shifting uncomfortably. He said it was not a good idea to come to his house. But she had remained obstinate despite the uncertainty regarding this visit. Her apology would fix nothing. But she still wanted to try.

“Maybe he’s not home?” he offers. But Veronica knows better. He is home alright? He is watching through the drawn curtains of his room.

She steps closer to the door again. Her fingers hovering over it. But she lets them fall to her side.

“He’s home,” she says. “He’s ignoring me.”

Shiro doesn’t argue. Instead, he grabs her wrist gently and pulls her away from the door, away from her guilt. Away from something she can’t fix.

“We’ll come back.”

She doesn’t move.

“I just wanted—” she takes in a sharp breath, her nails digging into her palm. “I just wanted to apologize. It can’t fix anything, but I just needed him to know that I’m truly sorry.” Then she chuckles, drily. “But I guess if I was truly sorry, the saint thing to do is to go back and tell the truth to the entire school?” She bites her lip, her toe kicking at invisible dust. “And I am not brave enough to do that.”

“It’s okay.” Shiro’s words aren’t at all dismissive. They hold regret and understanding. A quiet acceptance that she needs to hear.

“He’ll come around,” he says.

Veronica stares at the door for a moment longer.

He won’t come around.

It is over.

The chapter between Ian Petrakis and Veronica Beaumont have ended. There will be no them on the next page.

There will be no sequel.

Soon, they will vanish behind time.