8

The next morning, the whole school was buzzing.
Someone had taken a picture of the message on the whiteboard — “You shouldn’t be here” — and posted it online. By lunch, everyone had seen it.
Some said it was a ghost. Others said it was me.

I kept my head down, pretending not to hear the whispers that followed me through the hallways.
“Drama queen.”
“Attention seeker.”
“Maybe she just wants to be the next Emily.”
Each word felt like a blade.

In history class, I sat behind Noah, Emily’s old lab partner. He hadn’t talked much since the accident, but when our eyes met, something in his expression changed.
He leaned closer and whispered, “You need to stop looking for answers. It’s not safe.”

I froze. “What do you mean?” I whispered back, but he didn’t answer.
He just stared at the board, his jaw tight, his hand shaking slightly.
And then, under his breath, he said something I almost didn’t catch.
“None of us were supposed to tell.”

That’s when it hit me — this wasn’t just guilt or grief.
There was a secret buried under the ashes of that night.
And all of us had chosen the same lie.