Chapter Six

Rumors Begin

Rumors don’t start loudly.

That’s the first thing people get wrong.

There’s no announcement.

No moment where everything suddenly shifts.

It’s quieter than that.

It starts in pieces.

In looks.

In pauses.

In the way someone laughs just a second too late.

⸻

I noticed it in the corridor first.

Not even in a dramatic way.

Just—

A girl I didn’t know looked at me, then leaned into her friend and whispered something.

They both glanced back.

Then laughed.

Not loudly.

Not enough to call out.

Just enough to feel.

I kept walking.

Didn’t react.

Didn’t give it anything.

But it followed me.

That feeling.

Like something had already been said.

And I was the only one who hadn’t heard it yet.

⸻

“Liam.”

I turned.

Anne.

She looked… off.

Not upset.

Not angry.

Just—

Tense.

Like she was holding something in place inside herself.

“What?” I asked.

She hesitated.

That alone was enough to make my chest tighten.

“When did you start… saying stuff about people?”

I blinked.

“What?”

She crossed her arms.

“I heard something.”

“From who?”

She didn’t answer.

That was answer enough.

“I don’t talk about people,” I said flatly.

Anne gave a small, humourless laugh.

“Yeah. That’s what I thought.”

Thought.

Past tense.

Something twisted in my stomach.

“What did you hear?” I asked.

She shook her head.

“It doesn’t matter.”

“It clearly does.”

Another pause.

Longer this time.

Then—

“That you think the group’s fake.”

I stared at her.

“That’s not even—”

“That you’re just waiting for it to fall apart again.”

“That’s not—”

“That you said Sarah’s exhausting.”

That one hit.

Because it was close enough to something real.

Not something I said.

But something I’d thought.

And somehow—

That made it worse.

“I didn’t say that,” I said, quieter now.

Anne studied my face.

Like she was trying to decide something.

Then she nodded once.

“Okay.”

But she didn’t look convinced.

And that—

That stayed.

⸻

By lunchtime, it had spread.

Not everywhere.

Not obviously.

But enough.

Enough that people looked at me differently.

Enough that conversations stopped when I walked past.

Enough that I started noticing how often my name came up in whispers.

Flora noticed too.

Of course she did.

“They’re talking about you,” she said, dropping her bag onto the chair beside me.

I didn’t look up.

“I know.”

“Do you know what?”

“Not exactly.”

Flora sat down.

Leaning closer.

Lowering her voice.

“I heard someone say you’re trying to break the group again.”

I let out a short, hollow laugh.

“Original.”

“I’m serious.”

“I know you are.”

She studied me for a second.

“You don’t seem surprised.”

I finally looked at her.

“I’m not.”

Flora’s expression shifted.

Not confusion.

Recognition.

“You think it’s him.”

Not a question.

I didn’t answer.

I didn’t need to.

⸻

Across the room, James was laughing.

Not loudly.

Not performatively.

Just enough.

Just natural enough.

Like he belonged there.

Like he always had.

William was beside him.

Relaxed.

Comfortable.

Anne was there too.

But she wasn’t laughing.

She was watching.

Not me.

Him.

Like she was trying to line something up in her head and it wasn’t fitting.

Good.

She should be watching.

She should be questioning it.

Because I wasn’t the one doing this.

And deep down—

I think she knew that.

⸻

“Did you hear about Anne?”

Flora’s voice cut through my thoughts.

I frowned.

“What about her?”

She hesitated.

That hesitation again.

It was everywhere now.

“It’s… weird.”

“Just say it.”

Flora leaned in slightly.

“People are saying she’s a boy.”

For a second—

I thought I’d misheard.

Then I laughed.

Actually laughed.

Because it was so stupid.

So ridiculous.

“That’s not even—what?”

“I know,” Flora said quickly. “It doesn’t make sense. But it’s spreading.”

“Who started it?”

Flora shook her head.

“That’s the thing. No one knows.”

Of course they didn’t.

Because that’s how it worked.

No source.

No origin.

No one to blame.

Just—

A narrative.

Floating.

Attaching itself to people.

Rewriting them.

I glanced across the room again.

Anne had gone quiet now.

Completely.

William was saying something to James.

Something low.

Something that made James smile.

Not wide.

Not obvious.

Just—

Enough.

⸻

“Liam.”

I turned.

A voice I hadn’t heard in a while.

Not since—

Static One.

Ophelia.

Of course.

Because why not.

Why not bring everything back.

She stood a few feet away, arms crossed, expression unreadable.

“You’re trending again,” she said.

I raised an eyebrow.

“That’s not a good sign, is it?”

She smirked slightly.

“When is it ever?”

Flora stiffened beside me.

“What do you want?” she asked.

Ophelia ignored her.

Still looking at me.

“You always do this.”

“Do what?”

“Get involved in things you can’t control.”

I let out a quiet breath.

“Thanks. Really helpful.”

“I’m serious,” she said. “You think you’re outside of it, but you’re not. You never are.”

“That sounds familiar.”

“It should.”

She stepped closer.

Lowering her voice.

“People are saying you’re the reason everything goes wrong.”

I didn’t react.

Didn’t give her anything.

But inside—

Something shifted.

Not because I believed it.

But because—

It was working.

Not the rumor itself.

But the repetition.

The consistency.

The way it was everywhere and nowhere at the same time.

“You should probably fix that,” Ophelia added.

“Fix what?”

“Your image.”

I almost smiled.

Because that was the funniest part.

This wasn’t about truth.

It wasn’t about what actually happened.

It was about perception.

And perception—

Was already gone.

⸻

When Ophelia walked away, Flora let out a breath she’d been holding.

“This is messed up.”

“Yeah.”

“No one even knows where it’s coming from.”

“I do.”

She looked at me.

Waiting.

I didn’t say his name.

Didn’t need to.

Because across the room—

James glanced up.

Met my eyes.

And smiled.

Not wide.

Not mocking.

Just—

Calm.

Like none of this mattered.

Like he hadn’t touched anything.

Like everything was just…

Happening.

And that was the worst part.

Because if no one could see him doing it—

Then no one could stop him either.

⸻

By the end of the day, I understood something.

Something I hadn’t fully grasped before.

In Static One, James destroyed things directly.

Arguments.

Explosions.

Obvious damage.

But this—

This was different.

This was slower.

Quieter.

Cleaner.

No fingerprints.

No evidence.

Just people changing their minds.

Turning slightly.

Drifting.

And by the time you noticed—

It was already too late.

⸻

That night, I checked the group chat again.

The normal one.

Still active.

Still light.

Still fake.

Then I checked the second one.

New messages.

More conversations.

More things said where certain people couldn’t see them.

I scrolled.

Reading everything.

Watching how the same people acted differently depending on where they were.

Watching how reality split in two.

And somewhere between the messages—

I realised something that made my chest feel hollow.

This wasn’t just about controlling the group anymore.

It was bigger than that.

James wasn’t just changing what people thought.

He was changing what was real.

One version at a time.

Chapter Seven

Oliver’s Drift

The library was quieter than usual.

Even quieter than a library usually is.

It wasn’t empty, but it felt like it might as well have been.

Books were stacked haphazardly on the cart. Miss Pratt sat behind her desk, adjusting her glasses and glancing at a screen that had nothing to do with us. She always had that calm, almost dangerous awareness about her.

I was staring at the spines of the novels, pretending to organize them, but my hands didn’t move.

Oliver wasn’t here yet. Ethan wasn’t here yet.

And maybe, just maybe, that was for the best.

⸻

I heard the faint scrape of a chair, then his voice.

“Hey, Liam,” Oliver said.

I turned. He was leaning against a table, shoulders relaxed in that easy, effortless way that made me want to rewind time just to freeze the moment.

I forced a smile.

“Hey,” I said.

He raised an eyebrow, scanning the shelves, pretending to be looking for something, but really… he was just waiting.

Ethan came next, quietly, slipping in from the side. He smiled at me, just briefly, then focused on the comics.

I noticed it immediately. The way Oliver’s attention flicked. Not fully on Ethan. Not fully anywhere.

There was a hesitation there. Something subtle. Something off.

I blinked.

⸻

“Did… you two… do detention together yesterday?” I asked, casually, but my stomach twisted.

Oliver’s eyes flicked to mine. “Yeah.”

I nodded, trying not to show the sudden squeeze in my chest.

Ethan looked away, pretending to read. Pretending didn’t make it easier to watch.

⸻

The day dragged.

I watched them from a distance, and slowly, subtly, I started seeing patterns.

A conversation cut short.

A laugh that didn’t reach the eyes.

A hand that lingered near the other, then pulled away too soon.

The spaces between them were growing. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just a drift.

⸻

Later, after a quiet lunch, Flora appeared. She leaned against the edge of the cart I was pushing.

“You’ve noticed it too,” she said.

I didn’t respond.

“I saw it,” she continued. “Oliver. Ethan. They’re… separating. Quietly.”

I looked at her, frowning. “You think James is…”

She nodded. Slow, deliberate. “He’s… there. He’s making it happen without touching them directly. Just… planting ideas. Timing. Comments. Tiny jokes.”

I ran a hand down my face. “Why?”

“Because you’re happy,” Flora said simply. “You’re hoping. And he wants you to hope.”

⸻

I felt my chest tighten.

The cruelest part was the smallness. Not the screaming. Not the chaos.

Just the quiet suggestion that maybe something could exist… and then the slow erosion of it.

⸻

By the end of the afternoon, I was walking home, my hands shoved deep in my pockets.

I thought about the library. About Oliver’s half-smiles. About Ethan’s eyes.

I thought about how James must already know everything that’s happening. Already know what I’m seeing. Already know how I feel.

And somewhere in the quiet, I felt my chest hollow out, like the air had been sucked from my lungs.

Because hope—hearing it grow, feeling it pulse for just a second—was the perfect weapon.

And James was holding it.

I swallowed. Hard.

And I realized: the drift wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be.

It only needed to be seen.

And I was seeing it.

⸻

The library emptied slowly around me.

Miss Pratt didn’t look up.

Books sat in piles that didn’t make sense.

Oliver and Ethan left together, but the way their steps weren’t in sync anymore made my stomach churn.

I felt like I was standing on ice that was already cracking beneath my feet.

And I knew—I just knew—that whatever James had planned, it wasn’t over.

It had only just begun.