She leaves the office, her footsteps echoing faintly down the quiet hallway. As she steps outside, the crisp autumn air brushes against her skin like a whisper. The sky is a soft gray, and the trees lining the campus pathways shimmer in shades of amber, gold, and fading crimson. Leaves crunch beneath passing footsteps, and students walk by with backpacks slung lazily over one shoulder, chatting about midterms and coffee and things that don't matter right now.
To them, this is just another ordinary day.
Grace stops at the top of the steps and looks out at the world as if seeing it through glass. Everyone seems so alive—so untouched. A soft breeze lifts a strand of her hair, and for a fleeting moment, she envies their normalcy.
And then, dread washes over her.
What if someone recognizes her? What if someone points and whispers, "It's her—the girl from the photo?" What if the false stories already have a face?
She shrinks into herself, clutching her phone tightly in her hand.
I'll just skip class today. Just today, she tells herself, not quite convincing. It's only one day. That's not weakness... just survival.
She opens her messages and quickly types a short text to Harry.
She doesn't wait for a reply.
A deep sigh escapes her lips as she walks briskly toward the bus stop, her arms wrapped around herself even though it's not that cold. Her pace is quick, almost defensive, as though she's trying to outrun the weight pressing down on her chest.
But she knows the truth.
This ache inside her—it's not just from being exposed or mocked online. It's not even about the invasion of privacy or the thousands of eyes she can't see.
It's him.
Julian.
It's the way his name is being twisted and stained by people who know nothing. The way his quiet dignity is being ripped apart for entertainment, for gossip. And all because he was there for her.
Because of me, she thinks. The stalker... he was following me. Julian only got involved because he saw it—because he stepped in. And now he's being dragged down with me.
She bites her lower lip hard, her heart pounding. The guilt is a dull, sickening pulse in her chest.
She can't rewind time. She can't delete the internet. But she can't just stand still either.
I have to do something. I don't know what yet... but I can't let it stay like this.
As the bus pulls up and hisses to a stop, she climbs on with her head lowered, her thoughts racing. The world outside blurs past the window as she rides in silence—already searching, already planning.
The crisp morning breeze stirs the papers on the desk, fluttering the corner of a printed syllabus. The window is wide open, letting in the scent of dry leaves and distant chimney smoke, autumn curling gently into the corners of the room.
Julian sits still, shoulders relaxed in posture but taut beneath his shirt. He brings the ceramic mug to his lips and takes a measured sip, the bitter warmth of the coffee doing little to calm the thoughts churning beneath the surface.
He's here, in the office where everything is supposed to feel ordered—books stacked neatly on shelves, certificates framed on the wall, quiet ticking from the vintage clock above the filing cabinet. But even in this sanctuary of routine, he can feel the undercurrent of unrest.
Stay composed, he tells himself. You've done what you can.
He has. He called the school early, long before his first class, explaining the situation with careful clarity. The photo. The rumors. The truth. The faculty had listened—attentively, even sympathetically—and when he finished, they didn't hesitate.
They believed him.
That simple fact should bring comfort, and in some small way, it does. But the relief is fleeting, thin as breath on cold glass.
It's a relief, he thinks again, his gaze drifting to the steam rising from his mug. At least someone believes the truth.
He leans back slowly into the chair, letting it cradle him as he stares at the dark swirl of coffee. It's quiet here, but the silence only amplifies the spinning of his mind.
Still... how did that photo get taken? Who would even think to do something like that—and post it, like it's entertainment?
The question loops endlessly, a knot he can't untie. The angle of the photo was deliberate. It wasn't just a careless snapshot; it was targeted. A moment stolen. Weaponized.
His brow furrows.
Is it me they're following... or Grace?
And just like that, the quiet unease in his chest sharpens into something else. Fear—not for himself, but for her.
Grace.
Her name echoes inside him like a bell in a hollow chamber.
If she's the one being followed—if someone is watching her, tracking her movements, taking photos without her knowing—then this is more than a school rumor. It's something darker. More dangerous.
And then he remembers.
That moment, days ago, after class. The two of them had been walking together toward the lobby. She hesitated, just slightly—looking like she wanted to say something, like something was pressing at her throat—but then Lena had arrived. Grace had blinked, closed her mouth, and the moment was gone. She'd vanished into the crowd with a half-smile and a distracted excuse.
That was the day after the hotel incident.
Was she trying to tell me something? Did she already know about the photo? Or was it something else... something connected?
He sits forward slowly, setting the coffee mug down with a soft clink. His thoughts are no longer a haze—they're sharp now, cutting through the confusion like light through smoke.
He can't afford to stay passive. Not now.
He reaches for his phone, unlocking it with practiced ease. The screen glows, cool and pale in the morning light. His contact list remains blank under her name—he never saved her number, claiming to himself that it was for distance, for professionalism. But that lie has long since expired.
He knows the number by heart. It's there in the call history, as familiar as his own. But he hesitates, thumb hovering just above the glowing green icon on his phone. The silence of the office wraps around him, heavy and expectant. Through the wide-open window, the crisp morning breeze drifts in, carrying the faint rustle of amber leaves. It's a beautiful autumn day—almost too beautiful for the kind of conversation he's about to have.
For a moment, he just breathes. Then, he taps
The line rings. Once. Twice. Thirty long seconds stretch out like wire pulled too tight. Each second, his heart beats a little louder in his chest. He's not usually the one to hesitate—but this feels fragile, uncertain. He's walking into someone else's pain.
Finally, the call connects.
"Hello?" Her voice is soft, laced with caution.
There's a slight echo in the background—traffic, people's hurried footsteps, the mechanical sigh of a bus pulling away.
"Grace," Julian says, steadying his voice, "it's me. Julian."
A pause. It's not long, but it's enough to hear the shift in her breathing.
"Oh, hello," she replies. Her voice is casual, but there's something tight beneath it, something that doesn't belong there.
Julian doesn't dance around it. There's no time for that.
"There's something I want to ask," he says, lowering his voice instinctively. "Are you… are you being stalked? Or blackmailed?"
The question feels stark in the stillness that follows. His fingers close tightly around the phone. He can hear her silence. The air shifts again.
Five seconds.
Then her voice returns, laced with exhaustion and honesty. "Yeah," she breathes. "I've been getting anonymous texts. Photos. Umm…" She pauses, like the words are costing her something. "Professor Julian… I'm really sorry you got dragged into this. I think the stalker's trying to control me—or scare me. And… you got caught up in it. That photo was used to make a point, I think. You're not even part of this, and now you're in the middle of it."
Julian closes his eyes. The tension in his jaw eases slightly, but his chest feels heavier.
So it's true.
She's being watched. Threatened. Her world is quietly invaded by someone who hides in the shadows and uses fear as a weapon. A quiet anger stirs in him—not at her, but at whoever would dare do this to her.
"You don't need to apologize, Grace," he says gently. "Was that what you were trying to tell me after class? When Lena showed up?"
"Yeah," she says softly. "I should've told you. I already had the photo. The stalker sent it to me before it showed up on the school community website. But I didn't want to burden you with it. I thought… I thought maybe if I stayed quiet, it would pass. I didn't want to make things harder for you."
Julian exhales slowly, leaning back in his chair. The familiar creak of the leather echoes quietly in the room. His eyes drift toward the sunlight cutting across his desk.
She was trying to protect him. Even while being targeted, she was thinking of him. The guilt, the fear—she carried it all alone just to shield him from unnecessary pressure.