Alexis' POV
I never asked to care about anyone again.
Not after Mom.
Not after the fire, the accusations, the silence that followed.
But then came Vanessa.
She didn't ask me to open up. She didn't dig, didn't pry. She just sat there, breathing the same air, hurting in her own quiet way and somehow, it made me feel less alone.
It scared me.
Because if you care about someone, they can be taken from you.
And I've already lost enough.
The rumors were getting louder.
About me.
Whispers behind backs, stares in the hallway, that half second pause when I entered a room.
Vanessa pretended not to notice. Or maybe she really didn't. She had her own shadows. Maybe mine just blended into the background.
But I noticed.
And I hated it.
It got worse on Wednesday.
I opened my locker to find a single matchstick taped inside.
Nothing else. Just that.
But it said everything.
I stood there, staring at it, hearing the echoes of old accusations in my head.
You locked the door from the outside.
Why didn't you call 911 first?
Why weren't you crying when they pulled her out?
The match trembled in my hand before I crumpled it and shoved it into my pocket.
Vanessa found me a few minutes later by the courtyard steps.
"You okay?" she asked.
I nodded.
She didn't believe me. "You're lying."
"I'm fine," I muttered. "Let it go."
She didn't.
At lunch, she cornered me behind the gym.
"You're pulling away again," she said.
"I'm just tired."
"Of me?"
"No!" I shouted louder than I meant to. "Never of you."
She blinked, surprised by the force of it. So was I.
"I got something in my locker," I confessed. "A message."
"What kind of message?"
"The kind that says I should've burned with her."
Vanessa's face paled. "Who would say that?"
"Plenty of people."
"Do you know who?"
"No. And it doesn't matter."
"It does matter," she said fiercely. "You don't deserve this."
"Maybe I do."
Her voice broke. "Don't say that."
I looked away. "I don't want to drag you into this."
"Too late," she whispered. "I'm already here."
That night, I stood outside my house for ten full minutes before walking in.
My father wasn't home. Probably passed out in someone else's living room, or gambling away what was left of our money.
The house smelled like smoke and old sweat.
I stood in the kitchen, staring at the spot where Mom used to keep her spice rack. She'd sing while cooking, hum tunes that got stuck in your head for days.
Now the shelf was bare. The kitchen silent.
I reached under the sink and pulled out the metal box I hadn't opened in months.
Inside: newspaper clippings, a photo of Mom, the fire report, and a folded letter I never showed anyone.
A letter she wrote me.
I unfolded it with shaking hands.
My dearest Alexis,
If anything ever happens to me, I need you to know it wasn't your fault. It never was. You are my light in this world. Never forget that.
I stared at her handwriting for a long time.
Maybe it was time to believe her.
The next day, I gave Vanessa the letter.
Her hands shook as she read it, eyes moving slowly across each line.
When she finished, she looked up at me. "Why are you showing me this?"
"Because I trust you."
Her eyes welled with tears. "You don't have to carry it alone."
"I know."
And for the first time, I believed it.
The next week brought change.
Subtle, but real.
Vanessa and I laughed more. We walked to school together every day now. People still stared, but we didn't care as much.
Even Rose seemed to back off though I didn't trust that would last.
Then, on Friday, as we packed up for the weekend, Vanessa pulled something from her bag.
A small, handmade journal. My initials engraved on the cover.
"What's this?" I asked.
"I made it in art class," she said shyly. "Thought you could write in it. You know... instead of keeping everything inside."
I opened it. The first page had one sentence in her neat handwriting:
"You are more than what they say about you."
I swallowed the lump in my throat. "Thank you."
"You're welcome."
We walked out into the afternoon sun, the world a little less cruel than before.
But peace doesn't last.
Not in our stories.
That night, as I read through an old book, my phone buzzed.
Unknown Number: You still think she's safe with you?
Another text followed, a blurry photo.
Vanessa.
Standing in the hallway, smiling at something just out of frame.
My chest tightened.
I texted back: Who is this?
No reply.
Just silence.
And the awful certainty that whoever sent it wasn't done.