Backstabber's diary (part 2)

Episode 2: The First Cracked Mask

"Everyone wears a mask.

But it only takes one whisper—

To make it slip."

— Backstabber's Diary, Page 2

---

It began with a whisper. Not a scream, not a storm, but the kind of whisper that slides beneath locked doors and settles into conversations like dust. It carried no proof, no voice behind it—just suggestion. That was all it took. "Kaelyn Reed stole the scholarship meant for someone else." A single sentence, barely more than breath, yet it crawled across the pristine floors of Velmont Academy like a virus. People started looking twice. They started wondering. And wondering, in a place built on curated images and flawless reputations, is the first sign of collapse. Laughter changed. Eyes darted faster. And somewhere in the shadows of the library's upper floor, someone watched it all with the patience of someone who already knew how it would end.

From between ancient encyclopedias and shelves no one visited, she stood cloaked in silence, unseen but always seeing. She didn't move. Didn't smirk. Didn't celebrate. Because this wasn't victory. This was only the first fracture in a perfect painting. Two days earlier, she had slipped an anonymous envelope into the student council's complaint box. Inside—truth. Not twisted words or rumors. But records. Hard, real, time-stamped records of a scholarship that had been won fairly… and stolen deliberately. Her name had once been at the top of every merit list. And yet, she had vanished from them without explanation. And now, finally, the lie had been reawakened. She hadn't shouted for justice. She had whispered it.

During lunch, she sat alone at the courtyard's edge. The world buzzed with static tension, like a storm waiting to be named. The girl at the center of the rumor sat upright, still trying to hold her crown high. But her hands shook just slightly around her water bottle. Her voice, once the loudest in every space, now arrived a few beats late. Her laugh didn't carry the same confidence. And that's how it begins—when someone starts defending themselves before anyone accuses them. From a nearby bench, a boy with storm-grey eyes appeared again. He didn't announce himself, just sat and started biting into an apple like he belonged to this chaos. "Nice show," he said, not looking at her. "Kaelyn looks like she's about to choke on her own mascara." She didn't answer. He kept going. "What'd you do?" Her eyes remained still. "I told the truth." He chuckled. "Dangerous game. Around here, truth doesn't set you free. It digs your grave." She closed her notebook with a soft thud and stood. "Then I hope it digs deep."

That night, a message blinked on her phone.

> You think you're clever? Stay out of this. You're not ready for war.

She didn't hesitate. She typed back:

You're right. I'm not ready for war.

I am the war.

And then, just as quietly, she blocked the number.

By morning, the school was quieter. Heavier. The air felt dense, like Velmont itself was holding its breath. Students began whispering between classes. The subject was always the same. The scholarship. The documents. The lie that had slept peacefully until now. The girl who once ruled the school now walked faster, blinked harder, smiled less. She knew her name was being pulled back into the light. And the others? They weren't untouched. One of them—the golden boy, the one who had stayed quiet when it mattered—passed her in the hallway and whispered her old name. "Rhea." She stopped walking. Turned. Locked eyes with him. "That girl's dead," she said, voice ice. Then she walked away like nothing had happened—because to her, it hadn't.

The teachers weren't safe either. One of them, the one who had helped hide the truth, nearly dropped her coffee when the principal mentioned an audit on past merit records. Her smile was off-beat. Her heels clicked a little faster. Fear was easy to smell when you knew the scent. By the time the day ended, she knew the fire was lit under every one of them. But she wasn't celebrating yet. This was still act one.

That evening, she lit a single candle in her room. The only light in her space was the flickering orange glow, barely enough to touch the corners of the walls. She opened her diary, the black one, the one where truth was not recorded but weaponized. She crossed out the first name on her list.

> — Her mask has cracked.

Underneath, she paused at the second name.

> Still pretending. Still silent. But silence can scream.

The third name—

> She's flinching. Cracks have formed. The fall will follow.

And then, for the first time, she added a fourth name.

> Unknown Threat

They warned me. Mistake number one.

As she finished writing, something slid under her door. No sound. No footsteps. Just paper. She picked it up. One word on the front:

> STOP.

She opened it. A typed message stared back at her.

If you dig too deep, you'll end up like her.

And you know how she ended.

Inside, a photo.

A girl in a hospital bed. Tubes. Machines. Pale skin. Silent suffering.

Not forgotten.

Her breath caught—not from fear, but from rage.

Junie.

The only one who had stood with her when the storm came. The only one who had refused to lie, even when it cost her everything. The one everyone assumed had moved away, transferred, disappeared. But she hadn't. She had been erased. Silenced. And now, someone was warning her to forget.

She placed the photo gently on her desk. Then, in the back of the diary, she wrote with steady hands:

> "You reminded me of her.

Now I'll remind you of what happens when you bury the truth and think no one will come digging.

This was revenge.

But now—this is resurrection."

---

Author's note ❤️

Secrets don't always scream when they return. Sometimes, they come back dressed in silence and knock only once. This isn't a love triangle. This isn't a popularity contest. This is a dismantling. A slow, careful, breathtaking undoing of everything that was once considered untouchable. Someone thought they could burn her name and walk away with clean hands. But ashes remember. And so do girls who are no longer afraid to bleed in ink.

> The first mask has cracked.

But the quiet ones?

They haven't spoken yet.

And when they do—

It won't be with words.

Next Episode: The Boy Who Lied in Silence

Coming soon.

And nothing in Velmont will ever be quiet again.

Secrets don't always scream when they return. Sometimes, they walk back in wearing silence and sit right across from you. This story is not about pretty halls and teenage smiles. It's about what happens when the lies rot too deep to hide and the past decides it's done staying quiet. No, this isn't about forgiveness. This is about a promise made in the dark. A voice that was once shut down is speaking again—and it's not asking politely.

You've seen the first fracture.

The next mask is about to fall.

> Episode 3: The Boy Who Lied in Silence

Coming soon.

And this time—truth will leave a scar.