By Monday morning, everything had changed.
It started small — whispers in the hallway, a few curious glances during assembly. Then the questions came, low and sharp, hidden behind fake smiles.
"Did you hear?"
"They said he paid her fees…"
"Is it love or something else?"
"Rich boy playing savior again."
At first, I ignored it. But rumors have a way of growing — feeding off silence. By lunchtime, it wasn't just whispers anymore. It was full-blown gossip.
People I barely spoke to were suddenly interested in my life. They gave me nods with hidden meaning, laughs that didn't feel kind. Even a few teachers eyed me differently.
But the worst part?
Tope.
She had heard them too.
We sat together under our usual tree, both quiet. She finally broke the silence.
"They think I asked you to do it," she said. "That I'm using you."
I clenched my jaw. "Let them think what they want. We know the truth."
She looked at me. "Do we?"
I turned to her, confused.
She sighed. "This… this was supposed to be my journey. My struggle. And now, people think I only got this far because of you."
Her words hit hard.
I wanted to tell her that it didn't matter, that people would talk no matter what. But I also knew how fiercely she fought for her independence.
"I just wanted to help," I said quietly.
"I know," she replied. "But helping someone… doesn't always mean stepping in. Sometimes it means standing beside them. Letting them fall. Letting them rise."
I nodded slowly. "So what do we do now?"
She stood up, brushing dust from her skirt. "We face the rumors. Not by defending ourselves — but by proving them wrong."
And just like that, she walked away with her head high.
In that moment, I realized: strength isn't about proving you're right.
It's about being able to walk through shadows and still shine.