It only took seven hours.
Seven hours for Elena's blog post to go from a quiet midnight confession to a wildfire.
By morning, screenshots of it were splashed across Reddit threads, high school gossip pages, and TikToks with thousands of likes. Anonymous Twitter accounts quoted it with either awe or disgust.
Some praised her courage.
Some demanded expulsion.
Some just wanted drama.
> "So it's real?"
"They're not siblings, so is it that wrong?"
"I feel like I'm watching a Netflix show IRL."
And of course:
> "She's just doing this for attention."
Elena didn't go to school that day.
She didn't leave her room.
She barely picked up her phone, except to message Simon.
> Elena: I didn't expect this.
Simon: I know.
Elena: I thought maybe it would give us power.
Simon: It did. But power always comes with pain.
Elena: Are you mad I did it?
Simon: Never.
Simon: I'm proud.
Simon: I just wish I could hold you right now.
Elena: Me too. So much.
By noon, the school district issued a formal statement.
A half-hearted, corporate-toned paragraph about "investigating all concerns with student safety and well-being." It didn't name Simon or Elena, but everyone knew. It was their story. Their scandal.
Simon sat in class, staring blankly at the screen, while his phone buzzed in his pocket like a ticking bomb.
People looked at him with open curiosity now—not the side-eyes of before, but direct, emboldened stares.
One kid in history class leaned over and whispered:
> "She's kind of a legend for that post."
Simon said nothing.
Because legend or not, Elena was paying a price.
And so was he.
At lunch, he sat alone.
Eddie passed by his table, gave him a long look, and dropped a folded piece of paper in front of him before walking off.
Simon stared at it.
Unfolded it.
And read:
> "You could've told me the truth.
I would've hated you anyway.
But maybe I wouldn't have turned you into the school freak."
It was signed:
E.
He crumpled it up and tossed it in the trash.
Not out of anger.
Out of exhaustion.
That night, Simon and Elena met on FaceTime.
She looked tired. Makeup-free. Her hair a mess.
He'd never thought she looked more beautiful.
"I think I made it worse," she whispered.
"You made it honest," Simon replied.
Elena stared at the screen, blinking slowly. "I keep waiting for someone to make it all stop. But no one's coming. There's no reset button."
"There's only us," Simon said.
"That's the problem," she said, tears brimming. "We're not enough to fight this."
Simon leaned forward, jaw tight. "We are. And we have to be. Because I'd rather be hated with you than loved without you."
She cried silently.
He let her.
Then he whispered:
> "You started a fire, Elena. Let's burn down the lie."
The next morning, Elena returned to Lincoln Prep.
She walked in without sunglasses.
No hoodie.
No attempt to hide.
She wore red lipstick. A black blazer over a white shirt.
She looked like someone who dared the world to speak first.
And speak they did.
Whispers followed her through every hallway. Girls pointed. Guys watched. Teachers paused mid-sentence.
But no one said it to her face.
Not one.
She found her seat in first period, lifted her chin, and started taking notes like she wasn't trending on half the internet.
Because fear had gotten her nowhere.
And audacity?
Audacity might just keep her sane.
Simon was pulled into the principal's office again by third period.
Another official warning.
Another "be careful what you post online" speech.
But he wasn't listening anymore.
He was watching.
Watching how fast people turned on each other.
How desperate schools were to protect image over truth.
And how easy it was to become a villain in a story you didn't even write.
That night, Elena sent him a message.
> Elena: I want to tell your mom.
Simon: We already did.
Elena: No, not just that we love each other.
Elena: I want her to know I'm not giving up.
Elena: I want her to know I'm going to fight for you.
Simon's heart hitched in his chest.
> Simon: Are you sure?
Elena: If we don't claim our story, they'll keep rewriting it for us.
They told his mom the next evening.
The words weren't new.
But the tone was.
There was no shame. No apology.
Just truth.
And for the first time, their mother didn't interrupt. She just listened. Sat quietly on the couch, hands folded, eyes moving between the two of them.
When it was over, she asked a single question.
> "Are you happy?"
They nodded.
She took a long breath.
> "Then be careful. Because the world doesn't like that."