The rumor exploded before Emma even walked through the school doors.
She felt it instantly — the sideways looks, the half-smiles, the whispering that stopped the second she looked up.
"She kissed him."
"That new boy, Jace."
"Behind the gym."
"Kiss don't tell."
Emma froze at her locker, her fingers hovering over the combination dial. She hadn't kissed anyone. She hadn't even talked to Jace more than once. But rumors didn't need facts — they just needed someone to target.
Two girls standing nearby snickered.
"I bet she won't admit it," one whispered.
"She acts innocent," the other said, "but she's hiding something."
Emma swallowed her frustration and kept her face blank. Showing emotion only fed them.
At lunch, she sat alone, pretending she didn't notice the stares. Jace walked past her table, and even he looked uncomfortable — like he'd been dragged into a story none of them asked for.
Someone behind her stage-whispered,
"Kiss don't te-e-ell."
A whole table laughed
Emma clenched her jaw. She wanted to scream that it was all fake. She wanted to tell them to stop acting like her life was a game. But she knew how this worked: the louder she fought, the deeper the rumor dug in.
So she stayed quiet.
Not because she was guilty —
but because she refused to give them the show they wanted.
After school, Emma didn't go straight home. She needed air. Space. Silence.
She walked to the old empty bleachers behind the sports field — the one place no one bothered to go after hours.
She sat down, letting the cold metal cool her burning skin.
Why did people love making stories out of nothing? Why did they want her to be the villain, or the mystery, or the main character in a drama she never asked for?
She stared out at the field and whispered to herself,
"I didn't even do anything."
But the rumor didn't care.
"Kiss don't tell."
That's what they said.
But the truth was simpler:
She didn't owe anyone an explanation.
And if they were going to twist her silence into something scandalous…
then that was on them, not her.
Emma stood, brushing off her jeans, her spine straighter than it had been all day.
They could talk.
They could whisper.
They could make up stories.
But she wasn't breaking.