You Might Be The One (A Fan Fiction) - Luke Hemmings

Chapter 26• The Quiet Before The Storm

Leyla's POV

The courtyard felt miles away. We walked in a tight, silent group, the murmurs of our classmates a distant background noise. It was as if we were moving through a bubble, insulated from the chaos we had just unleashed. The confrontation with Luke was over, and the truth, raw and brutal, was finally out.

We found a secluded bench behind the art building, a spot where the world felt a little softer and more forgiving. The moment we sat down, Faith broke the silence, her voice a small, pained whisper. "I feel so stupid. I just... I believed him. He was our friend."

"He was a good liar," I said, the words feeling heavy on my tongue. The anger from moments ago had given way to a profound exhaustion. I looked at their faces, etched with a mix of shock and regret. They didn't see me as a victim. They saw me as an equal, someone who had been lied to, just like them.

"I can't believe I didn't see it," Calum said, running a hand through his hair in frustration. "You were my best friend, and I just let him keep me away from you."

Jovi's eyes were filled with tears as she looked at me. "He was so good at it, Leyla. He had us all convinced. I'm so, so sorry we weren't there for you."

I reached out and took her hand. "You're here now," I said, and the words were true. This feeling, this quiet solidarity, was more real than any memory Luke had tried to give me.

A part of me still ached for the boy who had made up constellations, the one who had held my hand in the park. The boy who was now a broken figure walking away. But that part of me was a ghost. My reality was here, with the friends who had stood by me when I needed them most. I didn't have to say I still cared for him. It was a secret pain, a complicated feeling that was mine alone to process.

"What do we do now?" Faith asked, her voice trembling slightly.

I looked at them, at the faces of my friends, my family. This was my new story. It wasn't about a boy who had lied. It was about the people who had found their way back to me. It was about rebuilding.

"We go to class," I said, a quiet resolve in my voice. "We go to class and we show everyone that we're still here. That we're not broken. And we do it together."

Calum reached out and placed his hand on top of mine and Jovi's. One by one, Faith and JJ added theirs to the pile. It was a small, simple gesture, but it held all the weight of our shared past and all the hope of our future. We weren't a group of individuals anymore; we were a new constellation, bound together by the truth.

The bell for first period rang, a jarring sound that pulled us from our silent pact. The moment of quiet solidarity was over. Now, we had to face the world. My first class was calculus, a subject I was told I excelled at, but which now felt like a foreign language. I walked into the classroom, the familiar scent of dry-erase markers and old textbooks filling my nostrils. I took my seat, and the world was just... normal.

The teacher, Mr. Davis, didn't seem to notice the shift in the atmosphere. He was in his element, his back to the class as he scribbled equations on the whiteboard. I looked around the room, at the faces of my classmates. They were all so oblivious, so wrapped up in their own worlds. I felt a pang of something akin to jealousy, and then it was gone, replaced by a fierce sense of resolve. I had a story to write, and it wasn't going to be about running away.

The class ended in a blur. I didn't absorb much, my mind still reeling from the events of the morning. As I gathered my books, a familiar figure appeared at my desk. It was Luke. He stood there, his hands shoved into his pockets, his face a mask of profound exhaustion and hurt. The defiance from earlier was gone, replaced by a quiet vulnerability that made my heart ache.

"Can we talk?" he whispered, his voice low and barely audible.

I looked at him, at the boy who had made up constellations, and at the man who had lied. The anger and the love were a confusing mess inside me. I wanted to scream at him, to make him feel the pain he had inflicted. But I also wanted to hold him, to tell him it was okay. I took a deep breath, the cold air filling my lungs.

"No," I said, my voice steady. "Not now. I have to go to my next class."

He flinched as if I had struck him, and his face fell. He looked at me, a silent plea in his eyes, but I didn't waver. I walked away, my back straight, my head held high. I was not running. I was moving forward.

As I walked down the hall, I felt a familiar presence. Calum walked beside me, his silent support a comfort in the crowded hallway. He didn't say anything, didn't ask what Luke wanted. He just walked with me, a quiet anchor in the stormy sea of my mind. The rest of my friends were waiting for us at the door of my next class. They were all there, a silent promise of solidarity.

The quiet before the storm was over. The storm was here, and I was walking straight into it. And for the first time since my accident, I wasn't just weathering it. I was in it, and I wasn't alone.

The walk to my next class was a gauntlet of whispers and curious stares. It was the first time I felt like a character in a movie, the protagonist everyone was watching. Students in the hallway glanced at me, then at Luke, then back at me, their faces a mix of confusion and morbid curiosity. The silence from the morning's confrontation was over; the wildfire of gossip had officially begun.

My friends formed a quiet shield around me. Calum walked on one side, his presence a solid, reassuring weight. Faith and Jovi were on the other, their chatter a low, protective hum that drowned out the whispers. They didn't ask me if I was okay; they simply were okay, and in that, they gave me the strength to be.

My next class was Art History. I was told I was a star student in this class, but the prospect of sitting through a lecture felt impossible. The moment I walked in, however, the familiar smell of paint and turpentine was a comfort. I took my seat and tried to focus on the screen at the front of the room, where a slide of a Van Gogh painting was projected.

The teacher, Ms. Ramirez, was a kind-faced woman with a sharp eye. She came over to my desk after class, a stack of papers in her hand. "Leyla," she said softly. "I have a new project for you. I know you've been through a lot, but I thought this might be a good way to... process everything."

She slid a paper onto my desk. The project was on an artist who had lost his sight in an accident and had to relearn how to paint. The focus was not on the loss, but on the rebuilding. On how he used his other senses to create something new, something more profound than his old work.

The project felt like a lifeline. It was a perfect, beautiful metaphor for my life. The past was gone, but it didn't have to be a void. It could be a new canvas, a place to create something better.

After class, I met up with my friends again. We found a quiet corner in the cafeteria, away from the prying eyes and whispers.

"What's the plan now?" Faith asked, her voice low. "We can't just keep walking around in a huddle."

"No," I said, a new kind of confidence in my voice. "We don't. We just... live. We live our lives, and we show everyone the truth. Not with words, but with actions."

I looked at Calum, and he gave me a small, approving nod. He understood. This wasn't about revenge; it was about reclaiming.

I pulled out my paper airplane from my pocket and held it up. The folds were still sharp, the paper still smooth. It wasn't a symbol of a lie anymore. It was a symbol of a journey, a promise that a small piece of paper could fly farther than you ever thought it could.

I smiled, a real smile this time. "This is our new story. A real one. We're not going to be afraid anymore." I tucked the paper airplane back into my pocket. "We're going to fly."