Grace stares at her, wide-eyed in disbelief.
"Practice?" she echoes.
But her mom just smiles gently, like it all makes perfect sense.
With a dramatic groan, Grace flops backward onto the bed, her head landing with a soft thud against the pillow. She throws an arm over her face.
Great. Character-building. Just what I needed.
"Well, this is definitely not the way I wanted to practice standing up for myself," Grace mutters. "Not with a photo of me in nothing but a towel floating around the internet."
Her mom laughs softly—annoyingly calm. "I looked at the photo again this morning. Thankfully, nothing important is showing. That's a relief, right?"
Grace groans again but doesn't argue. She knows her mom's trying.
"Well," her mom says, stepping back toward the hallway, her voice turning cheerful, "I'll see you tonight. Tell me everything, okay? And remember—God is with you, protecting you!"
The door creaks open, and Grace hears the familiar sounds of her mom putting on her shoes, keys jingling, and then the soft click of the front door closing behind her.
Silence settles into the room like dust in a sunbeam.
Grace lies still for a moment, staring at the ceiling. She exhales slowly, the kind that releases just a sliver of tension.
Maybe I should try thinking like Mom, she muses. Maybe this is some kind of practice... for what, I don't know. Real life? Shame resilience? Public humiliation 101?
A small smile tugs at the corner of her mouth despite everything.
At least everything that needed to be covered was covered, she thinks, pulling the blanket down to her collarbone. Still... What a way to build character.
She finally sits up and something has shifted. Just slightly. The storm inside her is still there, but it's no longer deafening.
A few hours later, instead of heading straight to her major course, Grace makes her way toward the school office—somewhere she's never actually had a reason to visit before. It's always been just another door in a hallway she passed without a second glance. But now, it feels like the most important place on campus.
She walks with her phone in one hand, already navigating the school's online site, trying to figure out who exactly she should speak to when she arrives. Julian had told her not to worry—that he'd handle everything. But still, something inside her insists on showing up for herself.
This whole mess started because of that crazy stalker, she thinks grimly, stepping off the bus at the stop just in front of the university gates. I can't make Professor Julian shoulder all the responsibility. It's not fair to him. I need to at least try.
The crisp autumn air brushes against her cheeks as she walks through the entrance, the breeze carrying the faint scent of dried leaves and distant coffee. The campus is painted in soft tones of orange, yellow, and fading green. It's beautiful—normally calming—but today it feels like walking through a spotlight.
She catches a few glances from students passing by.
A guy with a backpack slowing down just a little as he walks past. Two girls whispering to each other, eyes darting in her direction before quickly looking away.
Grace pulls her bag tighter over her shoulder and lowers her gaze, heart thumping harder.
Is this in my head? Am I just paranoid?
But the feeling stays.
Or are they really all looking at me?
She clenches her jaw and keeps walking, trying not to pick up speed. The self-consciousness wraps around her like a second skin. She hates it. She hates that she can't tell what's real anymore—if it's just her nerves or if everyone really has seen the photo.
Then, with a sudden burst of resolve, Grace lifts her chin and straightens her spine. Her pace quickens—not out of fear, but determination.
It's not like I did anything wrong, she reminds herself firmly. That guy— her thoughts tighten, —that stalker who took and uploaded that photo—he's the one who should be ashamed. Not me.
She walks even faster, cutting through the campus like a woman on a mission. Students blur past her periphery. She doesn't care anymore. She's done shrinking.
The school's online community office comes into view. It's tucked in one of the quieter academic buildings, with its glossy glass doors and bland signage. She slows her steps as she approaches, coming to a stop just in front.
Through the glass, she can see inside clearly—three people sit at desks, all mid-morning quiet, typing or scrolling or doing whatever office staff do when the campus is calm. No line. No one is waiting. No sign that this place usually sees much foot traffic at all.
Makes sense, she thinks. It's not like students come here unless something's really wrong.
Her mother's words echo gently in her mind.
"This is a chance for you to speak up for yourself, to stand up and tell the truth. It's a good experience."
Grace takes one breath. Then another.
Please help me, Lord, she whispers and she pushes open the door.
A cold gust of conditioned air wraps around her immediately. It's almost startling against the warmth of autumn outside. The soft hum of the office fills her ears—the distant clicking of a keyboard, the quiet whoosh of the A/C vent overhead.
All three staff members look up at her at the same time. Their expressions shift from routine focus to a quiet surprise—not overt, but definitely a collective pause.
Grace steps inside, feeling their eyes on her. She offers a small nod, uncertain but not backing down.
So they all recognize me now…
Grace feels it immediately—the subtle shift in the air, the way their eyes soften just slightly, trying not to linger too long. But she's sure of it. Her face is familiar now. Not because of who she is, but because of what's happened.
She walks over to the young man seated at the far left. He's the closest to the door, maybe mid-twenties, with a calm demeanor and tired eyes behind wireframe glasses.
"Hello," she begins, her voice steady, "I came by to ask for help with the posts that are on the school community website right now."
The man pauses for just a second, his expression shifting into something quietly apologetic.
"Okay," he says gently, "what's your name, please?"
Grace catches it immediately.
He already knows. Everyone in this office probably does. The posts have been up long enough for her photo to make the rounds across campus. But he's being polite—giving her space to name herself on her own terms.
He's trying not to make me feel worse. That's actually… kind, she thinks.
"I'm Grace Silver," she says. "I'm a master's student here."
He nods, his gaze sincere.
"Well, Grace…" His voice drops just slightly, now edged with sympathy. "Professor Lenter actually called our office this morning. He requested we take the posts down. We've already started the process, but..."
He hesitates.
Grace tenses.
"…A lot of new ones are coming up. Constantly. We're doing our best, but it's—well—it's spreading fast."
Grace doesn't respond right away. Her heart sinks a little, and for a brief moment, she wishes she hadn't asked. On her way here, she'd purposely avoided checking the school website, not wanting to see her image again—wrapped in that towel, frozen in an expression she can't even remember making. But now, hearing how the posts are multiplying, it hits her harder.
They're still posting. Still watching. Still talking.
Her throat tightens.
No, she tells herself quickly. Don't go there. What's done is already done. The photo's out. It's already on social media. That damage is done. Now's the time to focus on what can be fixed.
She straightens, breathing through her unease.
"All right," she says, managing a calm she's proud of. "I get that. Then... is there any way to regulate the new posts? Stop them from coming up again and again?"
The man looks at her with an apologetic expression, his eyes soft behind square glasses that catch the dull office light.
"Of course," he says, his voice low and cautious. "We'll do our best to take down the new posts—especially the ones spreading misinformation. But beyond that..." He sighs, glancing briefly at the stack of printed screenshots on his desk. "We can't control what's already out there. Once something starts spreading online, it has a life of its own."
Grace stands stiffly across from him, her arms loosely folded. She nods once, mechanically. She hears him—truly hears him—but her mind is already drifting into a quiet fog. The words hit like pebbles thrown into water: soft at first, then rippling deeper.
This is worse than she imagined. The pit in her stomach grows heavier with every second.
"I understand. Thank you," she says, her voice quieter than she intends. Then, after a pause, she adds, "If there's anything I need to do—"
"We'll contact you," the man replies, offering a practiced smile, the kind people wear when they don't have better news to give. "In the meantime, take care of yourself. Get some rest. I assume this has been... well, traumatic."
She manages a weak smile, her lips barely moving.
"Thank you again."