Chapter 1: Viral Betrayal and Old Scars

The third time Mason Blake stood up for Sierra Moreno—the scholarship girl with the dark curls and shy smile—someone snapped a photo and blasted it onto the campus Confessions Page, that anonymous Instagram account where everyone aired their drama and secrets.

It was one of those grainy, candid shots that somehow made everything look more dramatic than it actually was. The kind of post that blows up group chats and has everyone’s phones buzzing. By morning, people were whispering in the cafeteria, heads bent low over coffee, pretending not to care but scrolling through every comment anyway. I could practically hear the laughter, see the screenshots flying around.

The comments section was full of people defending me—Elena Harper. They called Sierra shameless, said she was just trying to steal someone else’s boyfriend, called her out for being fake. Others jumped on Mason, saying he should know better, that he was getting played by a girl who was just pretending to be sweet.

It was a mess—a digital dogpile, pure chaos. Some people got creative with their insults, dropping lines like "homewrecker" and "attention-seeker." Others tried to play peacemaker, but it was obvious which side most folks were on. The heat from their words practically radiated off my phone. It burned. Like a bonfire right through the screen. I had to look away, but I couldn’t.

But only I could see the seriousness and concern in Mason’s eyes. Did anyone else even notice?

There was a look he got when things mattered, when he thought no one was watching. Even in a blurry photo, I could spot it—a furrow in his brow, that tension in his jaw. It’s the kind of look you only learn to recognize after years of hoping, honestly, that he’ll finally turn it your way.

After our engagement was called off, I moved to London for grad school. I needed out. Fast.

I needed distance—a whole ocean’s worth. London was cold. But it was a clean slate. The idea of starting over somewhere new—where nobody knew my history or Mason’s name—felt like breathing after holding my breath for way too long.

My friend didn’t get it. “Are you seriously scared of that girl? You can’t handle a little drama?”

She asked it over FaceTime, her voice echoing through my tiny dorm room. My room was barely big enough for my suitcase, let alone my problems. I could see her frown, the way she twisted her hair around her finger, waiting for me to admit I was running away. But that wasn’t it—not really.

I shook my head. It wasn’t about fear. Not fear. Not even close.

It was about knowing when a fight’s already lost. Some battles aren’t worth the scars. I took a deep breath. The kind that fills your chest but never quite reaches your heart.

No one knew this was my third time living through all of this. Would anyone even believe me if I told them?

If I told anyone, they’d laugh it off, call me melodramatic or delusional. But I kept it to myself. Who’d believe it anyway? Sometimes, it felt like I was the only one stuck in a story that kept looping back on itself.

But it turns out, no matter how many times you try, the ending is always the same. It always ends the same way.

I used to think I could change the outcome if I just worked harder, loved deeper, tried again. But fate? Fate doesn’t care. It’s a rigged game, and I was tired of playing.

Even if they say yes to an engagement, someone who doesn’t love you will only ever feel trapped.

It’s like trying to hold water in your hands: no matter how tight you squeeze, it slips right through. Trust me, I tried. The harder I tried, the more obvious it became—Mason was never really mine to keep.

So, with an ocean between us, I let Mason go. I really did.

I meant it, too. I wanted him to be happy, even if that happiness meant letting go of me. I closed my laptop. Pulled the covers over my head. Let the city lights flicker through the blinds like distant stars.

Less than an hour after that photo was posted, the comments piled up, one after another, like skyscrapers downtown.

Notifications came in nonstop, my phone buzzing so much I finally had to flip it over. It was like watching a storm roll in. Inevitable. Loud. Impossible to ignore. The numbers just kept climbing, each new comment stacking on top of the last.

The top-liked comment was harsh: “Sierra Moreno, have you no shame? Always hanging around someone else’s boyfriend—don’t you get tired?”

That line hit hard, the way only strangers' words can. Why does it always hurt more coming from people you’ll never meet? It was the kind of comment people screenshot and send to their friends, laughing behind closed doors. I wondered if Sierra saw it, if it made her flinch or if she just scrolled right past.

The girl in the photo was beautiful and delicate, her eyes rimmed red. She was wearing a guy’s jacket, half-hidden behind someone.

It was Mason’s varsity jacket, the one he used to drape over my shoulders at late-night bonfires. Now it hung loose on Sierra, swallowing her up, making her look even smaller. It didn’t fit her. It didn’t fit this whole night. She clung to it like a lifeline, her cheeks blotchy from crying—or maybe from the attention.

And that someone was my boyfriend, Mason Blake. Or at least, he was supposed to be.

He stood in front of her, broad-shouldered and fierce, like he was ready to take on the world. For a second, I almost admired him. Almost.

Mason’s expression was fierce—he looked like he’d fight anyone for her.

His jaw was set, eyes hard. It was the same look he’d given me once, back when I was the one who needed saving. Funny how things change.

This was already the third time he’d ended up on the Confessions Page for standing up for Sierra Moreno. Three times. Who keeps count but me?

People had started to notice, whispering in the library, the dining hall, even the quad. But to me, every post was another nail in the coffin.

The comments were a mess:

“Someone’s drunk and causing trouble—call campus security, what’s the use of crying?”

The thread went off the rails fast. People threw around accusations like confetti. Everyone wanted their say.

“The college offers work-study jobs, but she insists on working at a hotel. And her coworkers were right there, but instead she calls Mason for help. We all know what she’s after.”

It was the kind of gossip that spreads fast in a small college town. People here love a good trainwreck.

“The hotel’s just a few steps from campus, the whole path is lit, but she still acts pitiful so Mason has to walk her home every night. Never seen anyone fake it this hard. Smh.”

The words stung, even though they weren’t about me. Still, I felt every word. It was like watching a car crash in slow motion—horrible, but impossible to look away.

“And Mason, too—can’t even tell right from wrong, just gets totally played by this fake sweet act. Fr.”

Someone always had to blame the guy, too. Easier that way, right?

…

And just like that, the night changed.

That day, I waited a long time at the restaurant. The smell of garlic bread, the clink of glasses—everything but him.

I sat by the window, tracing patterns in the condensation on my water glass. Every time the door swung open, I looked up. Hoping it would be Mason. It never was.

All I got was a text: “Elena, Sierra’s freaking out. I need to stay with her. Sorry, can’t make it tonight.”

My heart sank. I stared at the message until the words blurred. Of course. Of course she needed him more.

It was a century-old spot downtown. I’d made the reservation a month ago.

The place was the kind you saved for big occasions—anniversaries, proposals, celebrations. The kind where the waiter knows your name and the dessert menu is handwritten. Tonight was supposed to matter.

Of course she did.

Her post popped up right as I was about to put my phone away. Like the universe was laughing at me.

In the photo, she was leaning happily against Mason, grinning. The background was the movie theater Mason and I always went to: “Watching a movie with my crush—he asked me himself ;)”

I recognized the faded carpet, the old-fashioned popcorn machine in the corner. It was our spot—mine and Mason’s. Seeing them there felt like a punch to the gut. I almost laughed. Almost.

The comments were all cheers: “Girl, you’re killing it! From my experience, he definitely likes you. Go for it! 😍” “Y’all so cute fr.” “Rooting for you, girl!”

Sierra replied with a shy emoji: “Mhm.” Just two letters. That was all it took.

I stared at the screen for a long time, then called the restaurant: “Hey, I need to cancel my reservation.”

The hostess sounded sympathetic, her voice soft. “Maybe next time,” she said. There wouldn’t be a next time. I hung up before I could cry.

Mason knew how hard it was to get a spot at that restaurant. He knew how long I’d been planning for tonight. Did he even care?

He promised he’d wear a tie. For once. I guess promises don’t mean much when someone else needs you more.

But between the restaurant and the movie theater, between Elena Harper and Sierra Moreno, Mason chose the latter. He made his choice. Loud and clear.

The choice was clear, even if he never said it out loud. Sometimes, silence is the loudest answer of all. What else was left to say?