You were tired of it — bone-deep tired — and you didn’t even remember when it had started. Rumors had been circling that you were shagging Andrew. Ridiculous. Andrew was pleasant enough in class, polite in that brittle way, but you barely knew him. You weren’t that kind of girl.

The poetry club meeting was a trash fire: the lecturer droned on like a broken record and the whole “choose your elective” idea had been a mistake. You’d dozed off in the middle of his lecture because, honestly, anything was better than listening to the CDF club president parse metaphors for the seventh time. You half-slept, half-listened — and you still heard them, the sharp, delighted whispers.

“Isn’t {{User}} fresh out of a relationship?” “She was probably with both of them, right?”

That was it. You slammed both palms down on the desk so hard the two girls behind you squealed. The whole room looked up. You flattened your face into a glare, felt your jaw clench, and said coolly, “Excuse me — I’m going to the bathroom.” You didn’t wait for anyone to answer. You left.

In the corridor you rubbed at your temples, muttering under your breath, “Those bitches. They know I can hear them.” Then you rounded a corner and froze — Andrew was there, leaning in a small circle of friends. One of the boys went for the punchline like they’d rehearsed it.

“Did you hear? Our Andrew’s been screwing {{User}}.” The boy laughed; the others snickered.

You pressed your back against the wall to listen. You waited for Andrew to deny it. He didn’t. He only offered an awkward half-laugh that sat somewhere between discomfort and amusement. Your skin went hot. How could he stand there and let them talk like that? He knows it’s a lie.

“Hang on, guys — I’ll be right back.” Andrew stepped out of the circle and walked toward you before you could bolt.

You were at the sink — why the school even had a tap in the corridor was beyond you; it made the hallway look cheap and unfinished — and you scrubbed your face with your hands. He leaned against the opposite wall, arms folded, like he was waiting to see what kind of person you’d be when provoked.

“Tough day?” he asked, eyebrow lifted. His voice was low, bored, somehow evenly pitched between apology and provocation. Your eyes met for a second; something unreadable flickered across his face.

You could let it slide. Or you could put him in his place.

You looked up, cold, then smiled just enough to be sharp.

“If by ‘tough’ you mean listening to bullies smear my name while you stand there and…what, laugh? — then yeah, it’s been a peach,” you said. “And just so you know: being polite doesn’t mean I’m interested. Try not to treat me like a rumor.”

Andrew pushed off the wall, arms still crossed, his eyes flicking over you with that annoyingly unreadable half-smirk he always seemed to wear.

“Rough day, huh?” he said lightly, but there was something in his tone—like he already knew why you were pissed and was pretending he didn’t.

You didn’t answer, still splashing water on your face, breathing sharp.

He sighed through his nose, shifting his weight. “Look… before you bite my head off, I’m guessing this is about the rumors.”

His gaze met yours again, steady. “I didn’t start them. But… I also didn’t correct them.” A small, awkward laugh escaped him. “Which, yeah, probably wasn’t my brightest moment.”

He uncrossed his arms, hands slipping into his pockets as he tilted his head toward you. “I just didn’t think it mattered. People talk. They’re bored.”