By the time I realize my life is over, I’m standing in line for coffee.
The Student Union hums with the usual Tuesday noise—espresso machine screaming, someone’s Bluetooth speaker leaking bad EDM, the low roar of undergrads arguing about group projects they’ll never do. I’m in my usual spot near the back, laptop bag cutting into my shoulder, skimming edits on a media law essay.
Then Rosa’s name pops up on my phone, over and over, like it’s trying to claw its way out of the lock screen.
Three missed calls. Seven texts. One all caps.
NORA ANSWER YOUR DAMN PHONE
I step out of line, throat suddenly too dry for coffee.
“What,” I answer, not bothering with hello.
Her voice explodes through the speaker. “Do not freak out.”
My pulse does the exact opposite. “That is the worst way to start a sentence.”
“Okay, then, absolutely freak out, but do it on the way to the newsroom. Right now.”
My gaze sweeps the room out of habit: the giant Harrington University crest on the far wall, the student TV playing last night’s campus news—muted—and clusters of people hunched over their phones. Someone glances up at me and nudges their friend.
Ice slides under my skin.
“Rosa,” I say slowly, “what’s going on?”
She hesitates, and that’s worse than the yelling. “You’re trending.”
I laugh, a harsh, wrong sound. “I don’t do trends.”
“Yeah, well, Harrington Confessions says otherwise. Just get here.”
The line surges forward; someone curses behind me when I don’t move. I’m already shoving out of the queue, bag strap scraping my neck.
“Send it to me,” I whisper.
There’s a beat of silence, then my phone buzzes. The notification preview shows the familiar maroon icon of Harrington Confessions—the anonymous campus app that eats reputations for breakfast.
Rosa says something, but I don’t hear it. I hang up without meaning to and tap the link.
Post #4832: “You all worship Nora Ellis like some media saint, but sources say she’s been sleeping with faculty for grades. Screenshots don’t lie 😉.”
Below it: a grid of four images.
For a second my brain refuses to process them. Then the world tilts.
The top-left is a chat window, my name at the top. My avatar, the same stupid black-and-white photo from my campus email. The messages are obscene in their specificity.
Nora: “You said A if I ‘made it worth your while.’ Should I come by after office hours? ;))”
Unknown: “Close the door this time. Don’t want the dean hearing how you beg.”
I taste acid.
The bottom image is worse: a blurry photo of a man’s office, lamplight on a desk I know too well, and a shadowed profile that might be mine if you squint and want to ruin my life.
But it’s the handle at the top of the chat that makes my lungs seize.
J. Cole.
Not spelled out, but enough. Enough for anyone on this campus with a pulse and a schedule to connect it to Professor Jonathan Cole, star of the media ethics program. Married. Respected. My advisor.
Underneath, the comments are multiplying like maggots.
huge if true
knew she was too good to be real
plot twist: dean’s gonna bury this like everything else
My vision tunnels. The Student Union tilts—lights too bright, noise too loud. Somebody whispers my name.
