Amy’s POV
The first thing I saw when I opened my phone the next morning was the photo.
It was everywhere.
On Instagram. On Snapchat. Even floating around in private group chats I wasn’t even in anymore. My face was frozen mid-kiss, eyes closed, hands tangled in James’s hoodie. The lighting was harsh, and the angle wasn’t flattering, but that didn’t matter.
The caption underneath read:
“Betrayal looks good on her.”
My stomach dropped. My fingers trembled as I clicked the post. It had been shared by @TeaWithCamilla, a gossip page everyone in school followed but pretended not to care about. Except now, it wasn’t just gossip. It was war.
Camilla hadn’t even tried to be subtle. Her caption made it clear who posted the photo—and why.
My DMs exploded before I even finished brushing my teeth. Messages came in like a flood.
“Seriously, Amy?”
“Didn’t think you were that girl.”
“Queen Camilla would never.”
“Okay but… that kiss was kind of hot?”
“Traitor.”
I turned off notifications, but it didn’t matter. The damage was done. By the time I walked into school, the photo had become the only thing people wanted to talk about.
Whispers followed me down the hallway like shadows I couldn’t shake. Girls stared openly, some with pity, others with disgust. A group of cheerleaders huddled by the lockers near the gym, shooting me synchronized glares. People had already picked sides. Most chose Camilla’s.
By third period, I was called to the front office.
Coach sat behind her desk with a look on her face I’d never seen before. It wasn’t anger. It was disappointment—and something else. Exhaustion, maybe.
She didn’t even make me sit down.
“Amy,” she said, folding her hands neatly in front of her. “This isn’t just about a picture. It’s about the division it’s causing. I’ve already had three girls say they won’t practice next to you. Two of them walked out this morning.”
I opened my mouth, trying to find the words to defend myself, but my throat was dry.
“I’m not saying this is fair,” Coach added, her voice softening just slightly. “But until this settles, you’re suspended from cheer.”
Her words hit harder than I expected. I nodded stiffly, not trusting myself to speak. My feet felt like they were glued to the floor, but somehow I managed to walk out of the office without crying. Not yet.
The rest of the day, I walked the halls like a ghost.
People didn’t speak to me. The few friends I thought I had avoided my gaze or turned around when they saw me coming. Harper, who had helped me with my captain routine, gave me a quick apologetic look at lunch but didn’t sit with me. I didn’t blame her. Camilla still held most of the power, and I had just become public enemy number one.
I ate lunch alone in the art hallway, picking at a granola bar with no appetite. The weight in my chest sat heavy like wet sand. Every part of me ached with embarrassment, frustration, and a deep, sinking sense of isolation.
Only one person didn’t abandon me.
James.
He texted me memes. Dumb ones. A cat in a hoodie. A dog wearing sunglasses. A frog with a tiny crown that said, “Stay unbothered, queen.” And when I didn’t reply, he didn’t get upset. He just kept sending them.
That afternoon, when I opened my locker and found an iced coffee waiting inside—extra cream, no sugar, just the way I liked it—I didn’t need a note to know who it was from.
Later, he found me near the bleachers, staring out at the empty field. He didn’t say “how are you?” or “are you okay?” because he knew I wasn’t. Instead, he sat beside me, slid the coffee into my hands, and nudged my knee with his.
“I’m not letting you fade,” he said simply. “Not when you’re finally becoming you.”
My throat tightened, and my eyes stung, but I didn’t cry. I just nodded slowly and whispered, “Thank you.”
Being around James felt like air after drowning.
But school was still a battlefield, and it wasn’t over.
Just when I thought I had made it through the day without breaking, I returned to my locker at the end of last period—and he was there.
Charlie.
He leaned against the locker next to mine, arms crossed, eyes darker than I remembered. There was no warmth in his gaze. No regret. Just something cold and sharp.
“So,” he said, his voice low and biting, “you want attention?”
I froze.
He stepped closer, just enough to block my view of the hallway behind him.
“Well,” he said with a bitter smirk, “you’ve got mine now.”