Untouchable
/ˌʌnˈtʌtʃəbəl/
adjective
[more untouchable; most untouchable]
: not able to be touched: such as
a : too powerful or important to be punished, criticized, etc.
b : too good to be equaled by anyone else
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--- – Mystery POV
The door slammed shut. Hard.
I flinched at the sound, but I didn’t move from where I stood.
She was pacing now, her breathing uneven, hands clenching and unclenching at her sides. The room was dim, lit only by the hallway’s weak glow seeping through the small window in the door. Shadows stretched across the walls, shifting with every sharp turn she made.
I stayed silent.
“You lied to me,” she hissed, voice breaking.
I swallowed. “I didn’t—”
“Don’t.” She spun to face me, eyes blazing. “You lied.”
I exhaled slowly, keeping my tone even. “I came back to apologize. To start fresh. You said it was okay to come back.”
That didn’t calm her. If anything, her expression darkened.
“I trusted you,” she said. “You knew, didn’t you?”
I didn’t answer.
She let out a bitter laugh, shaking her head. “Of course you did. Of course you did.”
I shifted slightly, but before I could say anything, she closed the distance between us.
“You were supposed to be on my side,” she said, voice quieter now, but somehow sharper. More dangerous.
My stomach twisted. “I didn’t mean for any of this to happen.”
Her breath hitched. “It just happened? No. It doesn’t just happen. Either you did this to humiliate me, or he really is done with me.”
Silence.
She let out a shaky breath. “Did you see the way he looked at her? He used to look at me like that.”
Her voice broke on the last word, and for a second, just a second, I saw something raw in her expression. But then her jaw tightened. Her hands curled into fists.
“I should’ve stayed in Paris,” she muttered, more to herself than to me. “I was better off there. At least there, I didn’t have to see—” She cut herself off, inhaling sharply. “I was doing great, actually. But I don’t know if I can stay here, knowing that the boy I loved—the boy I foolishly pushed away because of my own trust issues—is in love with someone probably way better than I could ever be.”
She turned toward the door.
I hesitated.
It wasn’t supposed to be like this.
“Wait,” I said, stepping forward, but she didn’t stop.
I grabbed her wrist.
Her breath hitched, her whole body going rigid.
“I’m gonna fix this,” I said, grip firm but not forceful. “I promise.”
She didn’t look at me.
“He still loves you,” I pressed. “I know he hasn’t slept with anyone because he’s waiting for you to be his first.”
Nothing.
“I know that when he saw you, it changed everything for him.”
She let out a quiet, humorless laugh. “You don’t know anything.”
I tightened my grip just slightly. “Soon, they’re gonna break up. And when they do, he’ll realize he never stopped loving you. I swear to you, I’ll fix this.”
She finally turned, and for the first time since this conversation started, her expression softened. But not in the way I expected. Not with relief.
With disappointment.
“At this point,” she whispered, prying my fingers off her wrist, “I don’t know if I can trust you anymore.”
And with that, she was gone.
Leaving me in the empty classroom, alone with the weight of what I’d done.
