If dread had a soundtrack, it would be the hollow echo of an empty classroom before everyone else arrives.
Friday.
The day I'd decided to let Makayla sit in the chair.
My body woke me up before my alarm, heart already racing like it knew what was coming.
Yoga didn't help.
Even Miles's stupid commentary about downward dog didn't help.
"Your breathing's all messed up," he said, watching me exhale too fast. "You sound like you just ran from TSA."
"I'm fine," I lied, wobbling in tree pose.
"You're lying," he said calmly. "You only do that face when you're about to fight someone or forgive them."
I lost my balance and dropped my foot.
"I'm not forgiving her," I snapped.
He tilted his head. "Then why are you giving her a mic?"
Because you told me to steer, not run. Because part of me needs to know if there was ever a version of her that loved me the way I loved her. Because I'm tired of being scared of my own past.
"I'm not giving her a mic," I muttered instead. "I'm giving the project a story."
He watched me for a beat.
"Don't hide behind the project," he said gently. "Not with me."
I opened my mouth to argue.
Nothing came out.
He stepped closer, resting his hands lightly on my shoulders. "You know you can tell her 'no' today," he said. "Even if she shows up. Even if the camera's set up. You can look her in the eye and say, 'I changed my mind.' That's allowed."
"I know," I said.
"Do you?"
I swallowed.
"I know," I repeated.
He nodded once. "Okay. Then if you still do it, it's because you chose to. Not because you felt pushed."
I hated that he was right.
I also kind of loved it.
By the time lunch rolled around, my nerves had evolved from butterflies to full‑on seagulls.
In the Media Studies room, we did a tech check like it was any other day.
Camera battery: full.
SD card: formatted.
Tripod: steady.
My hands: not.
"You don't have to do this," Niqua said for the third time, leaning against a desk, arms folded.
"I know," I said for the third time. "If one more person tells me that, I'm going to interview them about boundaries."
Seraph snorted. "Honestly? I'd watch that."
Mason fiddled with the mic, then looked up. "You want me to run camera, or do you want it on the tripod?"
"Tripod," I said. "If someone else is behind it, she'll play to you. I need her looking at me."
He nodded slowly. "You're sure?"
No.
"Yes," I said.
Ms. Torres stood by the door, holding a folder of extra release forms like it was a shield.
"Ground rules," she said, scanning all of us. "One: if at any point you want to stop, you stop. I don't care if we're mid‑sentence. Two: if she crosses a line, I step in. This is not a courtroom. It's not a battlefield. It's a classroom. Three: nothing from this footage goes into anything without all parties signing off. That includes you, Jayla."
I nodded, throat dry.
"Do you want me in the room?" she asked.
I pictured doing this without an adult present.
Absolutely not.
"Yes," I said quickly. "Please."
Her mouth twitched. "I live to intimidate teenagers," she said. "I'll sit in the corner."
My phone buzzed on the desk.
My heart jumped.
Makayla:
Here.
In the hall.
My fingers hovered over the screen.
For a second, every version of our friendship flashed through my mind like bad edits.
Twelve‑year‑old us sharing headphones on the bus. Thirteen‑year‑old us practicing dances for TikToks that never got posted. Sixteen‑year‑old us fighting over a borrowed top. Seventeen‑year‑old us… ending.
"Ready?" Seraph asked quietly.
"No," I said. "Let her in anyway."
When Makayla walked in, the air shifted.
She looked… smaller than I remembered.
Not in height or hair—those were the same. Curls laid, lashes on, outfit immaculate in that I‑did‑this‑without‑trying way she'd perfected years ago.
But her shoulders were tucked in, like she was bracing for a hit.
Her eyes swept the room.
Lingered on the camera.
Found mine.
"Hey," she said.
My throat went tight. "Hey."
She held up the signed release form, already scribbled with her loopy signature.
"I read it," she said quickly. "I know I can pull out any time. I know you don't have to use this. I… just wanted to show I'm not here to ambush you."
Her voice was softer than the one from Dan's videos.
Less performance. More… naked.
"Thanks," I said, taking the paper. My fingers brushed hers.
A ghost of something old shivered between us.
I handed the form to Ms. Torres.
She skimmed it, nodded, and slid into a chair in the corner, notebook on her lap.
Mason took a step toward the door. "We'll clear out," he said, jerking his chin at Seraph and Niqua.
"No," I blurted.
They all froze.
I swallowed. "You can stay," I said to the girls. "If you want."
Seraph's brows shot up. "You sure?"
"Squad or nothing," I said, voice steadier than I felt.
Something like pride flickered in her eyes.
"Then I'm absolutely staying," she said, dragging a chair to the side.
Niqua sat next to her, expression unreadable but gaze soft.
Mason took the hint and retreated to the back of the room, out of sight of the camera but within earshot.
Makayla watched all of this, swallowing.
"This is… a lot of witnesses," she said weakly.
"Nobody's here to attack you," Ms. Torres said. "They're here to support Jayla. And to be extra sets of ears. You can pretend we're not here if you want."
Her eyes flicked to me again.
"I don't think I can pretend anything around you anymore," she said.
The old, automatic hurt flared.
I shoved it down.
"Sit," I said, gesturing to the chair in front of the camera.
She sat.
I adjusted the tripod, framed her in the shot.
The red light on the camera was off.
My hand hovered over the record button.
"Before we start," I said, "I'm going to repeat what I texted you. On camera. So it's clear."
She nodded, jaw tight.
"If you do this," I said, voice slow and deliberate, "you are talking about you. Not Dan. Not me. Not the TikToks. You can mention them, but this is not a reaction video. It's your 'Where I'm From.' If it turns into something else, I stop it. Cool?"
Her throat bobbed. "Cool," she said.
I glanced at Ms. Torres.
She gave a small nod.
I pressed record.
The red light blinked on.
"Name?" I asked.
Her lips quirked, like even now she couldn't resist a bit of show.
"Makayla Rivers," she said. "Home is… complicated."
Silence stretched.
"Try anyway," I said.
Her gaze flicked just past the camera, then back.
"Home is San Ángel," she said finally. "The rooftop of my building. The smell of fried food from the trucks. The sound of my parents arguing about money when they thought I was asleep. It's… the basketball court where we used to sit on the bleachers and talk about who we were gonna be."
My chest squeezed.
Us.
"You can say my name," I said quietly. "I'm not Voldemort."
A reluctant, broken laugh slipped out of her.
"Home was me and Jayla," she said. "Two loudmouths who thought we were the main characters before we even hit high school."
I didn't look away.
"One thing you carry?" I asked.
She hesitated.
"The feeling that I'm always almost enough," she said finally, eyes glistening. "Like… I'm pretty, but not the prettiest girl in the room. Smart, but not the smartest. Talented, but not the one who gets picked first. I've been the 'second choice' girl since, like, third grade. Best friend, never girlfriend. Understudy, never lead."
Her voice wobbled.
"And when you feel like that long enough," she went on, "you start grabbing for anything that makes you feel chosen. Even if it's messy. Even if it hurts someone you love."
The words landed heavy.
I sat down in the chair opposite her, just out of frame.
"Is that what you want people to understand?" I asked. "That you hurt me because you felt… almost enough?"
She winced.
"No," she said quickly. "I mean… yes, but not like an excuse. There is no excuse. I hurt you because I was selfish. And jealous. And because for one stupid, awful minute, it felt good to be the one someone wanted instead of the one standing next to the girl they wanted."
She met my eyes.
"You have to know that," she said. "You've always been that girl, Jay. The one people gravitate to. Guys. Teachers. Even old ladies at the bodega would give you extra candy for free. I told myself I was okay being your sidekick. Your hype woman. Your number two. But I wasn't. Not really."
A part of me bristled.
Another part… understood.
"You could've told me that," I said. "Instead of sneaking kisses behind my back."
Tears spilled over, streaking her mascara.
"I know," she whispered. "I was scared you'd leave if I said it. So I did the one thing that guaranteed you would."
The room felt too small.
Behind me, I could hear Seraph's breath hitch, Niqua's leg bouncing a mile a minute, Mason's chair creak.
"You said you wouldn't talk about him," I reminded her.
"I'm not," she said. "This isn't even about him anymore. He was just… there. Available. The wrong person at the right time to blow everything up."
She took a shaky breath.
"One thing people get wrong about you?" I asked, turning the question.
Her eyes widened. "Me?"
"Yeah," I said. "That's one of our prompts, remember? What do people assume when they see you in the hallway?"
She looked down at her hands.
"They think I don't care," she said. "That I'm some heartless bitch who loves drama. That I did what I did because I'm evil, or because I hate you, or because I wanted clout."
She swallowed.
"I cared too much," she whispered. "About what people thought. About not disappearing after you left. About not being 'Jayla's friend' forever instead of just… Makayla. When you moved, everyone kept asking me where you were, how you were, like I was your press secretary. Nobody asked how I was coping with my best friend being gone."
Guilt twisted in my gut.
I hadn't thought about that.
I'd been so wrapped up in my own grief, my own resentment at having to leave, that I'd assumed the world I left behind froze without me.
It hadn't.
It had spun.
Without me in the center.
"That doesn't excuse it," I said softly.
"I know," she repeated. "I'm not trying to make you feel sorry for me. I just… want people to know I'm not a cartoon villain. I'm just… a girl who made the worst choice possible at the worst time."
Silence hummed between us.
"Okay," I said after a moment. "Then say it. On camera. Plain."
She wiped her cheeks, sniffed, and looked straight into the lens.
"I kissed my best friend's boyfriend," she said, voice raw. "On purpose. I knew it was wrong. I did it anyway. Not because she was bad to me. Not because he manipulated me. Because I wanted to feel wanted. It was selfish. It was cruel. It cost me the best friendship I ever had. I regret it every day."
The words hung in the air like a confession in church.
Behind me, someone exhaled sharply.
"You know what happens when this goes out?" I asked quietly. "People will call you names again. Slut. Snake. Whatever. Are you ready for that?"
She smiled, bitter.
"They already do," she said. "At least this time, they'll be mad at the real version of me. Not the edited one."
My eyes burned.
I blinked hard.
"One thing you carry?" I asked, going back to the script.
Her lips trembled.
"The memory of us before all this," she said. "Singing in your room. Sharing fries at the pier. Calling each other when our moms were on one. I carry it like a stone and a blanket."
My vision blurred.
"And one thing you're scared to say out loud?" I forced out, voice rough.
She looked at me—not the camera this time. Just me.
"That if you hadn't left," she whispered, "I might not have done it. And I hate myself for thinking that. Because it makes it sound like it's your fault, and it's not. It was my choice. I just… wish I'd been better at being alone."
A tear slid down my cheek.
Not planned. Not performative.
Just… there.
We stared at each other.
Two girls with an ocean of history between them and a camera catching every ripple.
"I have a question," she said suddenly.
I stiffened. "This is not your interview," I warned.
"I know," she said quickly. "It's just… one. And Ms. Torres can stop me if it's out of line."
All eyes turned to Ms. Torres.
She sighed. "Go ahead," she said. "Carefully."
Makayla twisted her fingers in her lap.
"If I had apologized like this before the videos," she said slowly, "before Dan, before Brooklyn saw everything… do you think there was a version of this where we fixed it? Where we made it back?"
The question punched the air out of my lungs.
Every muscle in my body tensed.
I thought about San Ángel. About that first night in Brooklyn. About the beach party, the bonfire speech, the videos, the way my heart had cracked and glued itself together with new people.
I thought about how much I had changed.
How much she had.
"I don't know," I said honestly, voice thick. "Maybe. Maybe not. But we're not there anymore."
Her face crumpled.
I pressed on.
"I can't unknow what you did," I said. "I can't unknow how it felt to see you in those videos. To hear you call me dramatic while you were… there. I can't push a reset button and go back to being thirteen with matching friendship bracelets."
Her shoulders shook.
"But," I added, surprising myself, "I also can't keep pretending you're just a villain in my story. You were my friend. You broke my heart. Both can be true."
A sob tore out of her.
I glanced at the camera.
At the red light.
At Ms. Torres.
"Cut," I said hoarsely.
Mason darted forward and hit the button.
The light went off.
The second it did, Makayla covered her face with her hands and finally let herself cry.
Ugly.
Loud.
Real.
For a heartbeat, I just sat there, hands gripping my knees, unsure.
Then my body moved before my brain could vote.
I stood.
Walked the two steps between our chairs.
And put a tissue box on her lap.
Not a hug. Not a dramatic reconciliation.
Just… a box of tissues.
She peeked up at me through smeared mascara.
"Thank you," she croaked.
"Don't thank me," I said, fighting my own tears. "Thank the school budget for cheap tissues."
A weak laugh wheezed out of her.
Behind us, Seraph sniffled loudly. "You bitches are gonna mess up my eyeliner," she muttered, swiping at her eyes.
Niqua cleared her throat. "Okay, so, um… anyone else feel like they need carbs immediately, or is it just me?"
Ms. Torres stood, rubbing the bridge of her nose. "We're taking a break," she announced. "Everyone out. Five minutes. Breathe. Drink water. Jayla, Makayla—stay."
The others filed out, some squeezing my shoulder on the way.
When the door clicked shut, the room felt bigger and smaller at the same time.
Ms. Torres leaned against a desk, looking between us.
"You both did something hard in there," she said simply. "I'm proud of you."
I wiped my cheeks. "Is any of that… usable?" I asked, nodding toward the camera.
"Some," she said. "Not all. The part where she takes responsibility? That's powerful. The part where you make it clear you're not going back to how it was? Also powerful. The question about 'if you hadn't left'…" She sighed. "We'd have to talk about that."
I nodded.
Makayla sniffled. "You don't have to use any of it," she said quickly. "I didn't do this to get clout. I just… wanted to say it somewhere that wasn't a DM or a comment section."
"I know," I said.
I also knew that some of it needed to be seen.
Not for her.
For the girls watching.
For the ones who'd been me.
And the ones who'd been her.
"We're not deciding today," Ms. Torres said firmly. "We'll watch it together later. All of us. You'll each have veto power over anything that feels too raw. Remember: consent is continuous, not a one‑time signature."
Relief loosened my spine.
"Okay," I said.
Makayla stood, wiping under her eyes.
"I'm gonna go before the bell rings and everyone sees I've been crying in your little film lab," she said, attempting a joke and mostly failing.
She walked toward the door.
Paused with her hand on the handle.
"Jayla?" she said without turning.
"Yeah?"
"If you ever do decide to use any of it… can you send it to me first?" she asked. "So I can… show my mom? Before she sees it from someone else?"
The image hit me—her mom, who'd always yelled at us in rapid Spanish about curfews and grades, sitting in front of a screen watching her daughter confess.
"Yeah," I said softly. "I can do that."
She nodded once.
Then left.
The door clicked shut behind her.
Silence settled.
For a full thirty seconds, I just stood there, letting the adrenaline drain out of my body.
Then my legs gave out.
I dropped into the chair she'd just vacated, burying my face in my hands.
Ms. Torres let me sit like that for a moment.
Then she spoke.
"How do you feel?" she asked.
"Like I got hit by a truck," I said into my palms. "A very honest truck."
"Do you regret doing it?"
I thought about it.
Really thought about it.
"No," I said finally. "It hurt. But… I don't regret it."
"Good," she said. "That's all you can ask of yourself."
My phone buzzed weakly in my pocket.
I ignored it.
"Take your time," she added. "When you're ready, go find your people. Don't go home alone with this in your head."
I nodded.
When I finally stepped into the hallway, the noise of changing periods crashed over me.
Kids laughing.
Lockers slamming.
Someone sprinting because they were late.
I spotted Seraph and Niqua leaning against the opposite wall, waiting.
"What did we miss?" Seraph asked, trying to stay light.
"Everything and nothing," I said.
Niqua searched my face. "You okay?"
I surprised myself by answering honestly.
"Not yet," I said. "But… I think I will be."
They flanked me, one on each side, as we walked down the hall.
Phones were still out.
Rumors were still buzzing.
But for the first time, it felt like I wasn't running from the story anymore.
I had turned and faced it.
Looked it in the eye.
Hit record.
On my terms.
And somewhere between the hurt and the honesty, a tiny space had opened up.
Not for going back.
For moving forward.
Wave by wave.
Frame by frame.
Mine.
And when my phone buzzed again later, it was a text from Miles.
Miles:
How'd it go?
Need me on guard dog duty or ice cream duty?
I smiled, fingers hovering over the screen.
Me:
Both.
He replied instantly.
Miles:
On my way.
Guard dog with sprinkles.
I tucked my phone into my pocket, tucked my heart back into my chest, and kept walking.
Chapter 26 was done.
But my story wasn't.
Not even close.