Chapter 3: The Real Show Begins

When I walked into the academic building, every head in the hallway turned toward me. No one moved aside. They just wanted a clear look at my face. Some people whispered. Some held up their phones to film me. A laugh echoed from behind me. “That’s her.” I pushed open the back door of the class

The room went quiet.

Not completely quiet.

There were still whispers, chairs scraping, and the soft clicking of phone screens, but everyone was pretending not to stare.

I walked toward my desk.

Someone had written two words across it in black marker.

ABORTION GIRL.

My steps stopped.

For a second, the classroom disappeared.

I was back in my previous life.

The same desk.

The same words.

The same laughter.

Last time, I had stood there with tears burning my eyes while everyone watched.

I had rushed to the bathroom, soaked tissues with water, and scrubbed until my fingers hurt.

The marker hadn't come off completely.

For weeks, I had covered the stain with textbooks.

This time, I took out my phone.

Click.

I photographed the desk.

Then I turned around.

“Who wrote it?”

Nobody answered.

A boy near the window snorted.

“Why do you care? If it's not true, just ignore it.”

I recognized him.

Mason Cole.

One of the basketball players who had cornered me outside the school gate in my previous life.

He had called me a slut while his friends laughed.

I looked directly at him.

“Say that again.”

His smile faltered.

“What?”

“What you just said.”

Several phones immediately turned toward us.

Mason noticed them too.

He leaned back in his chair.

“I said if it isn't true, ignore it.”

“Good.”

I raised my phone.

“Now it's recorded.”

His expression changed.

I sat down without cleaning the desk.

That confused everyone more than anything else.

A few minutes later, the front door opened.

Greer walked in.

Her usual group surrounded her.

Perfect ponytail.

Perfect uniform.

Perfect expression.

But I saw the dark circles beneath her eyes.

She had not slept well.

Good.

Her gaze landed on me.

Then on the words across my desk.

Her lips twitched.

She walked over.

“Imogen.”

Her voice was soft enough to sound concerned.

“I'm sorry people are taking the forum post so seriously.”

I looked up.

“Are you?”

Greer froze for half a second.

“Of course. I already explained it was a misunderstanding.”

“You said it was a joke.”

“That's what I meant.”

“Then why haven't you deleted it?”

The classroom became quieter.

Greer's smile tightened.

“I was going to.”

“You posted it yesterday.”

“I haven't had time.”

I nodded.

“Interesting.”

Greer stared at me.

I could practically see her calculating what I knew.

Last time, she had never needed to be careful around me.

I had been too frightened to fight back.

Now every sentence I spoke made her nervous.

She lowered her voice.

“Can we talk outside?”

“No.”

“Imogen, don't be childish.”

“If you have something to say, say it here.”

Someone behind us laughed.

Greer's face hardened.

Before she could answer, our homeroom teacher entered.

Mrs. Hart stopped when she saw my desk.

Her eyebrows pulled together.

“What's going on here?”

Nobody spoke.

I raised my hand.

“Someone vandalized my desk.”

Mrs. Hart sighed.

That sigh.

I remembered it.

In my previous life, it had always come before someone told me not to make things difficult.

“Imogen, we'll have someone clean it later. For now, please sit down so we can begin class.”

“I've already photographed it.”

She paused.

“Photographed it?”

“Yes. I'm documenting the harassment.”

Several students exchanged looks.

Mrs. Hart's expression became uncomfortable.

“Let's not use words like harassment before we know what happened.”

I almost laughed.

There it was.

Exactly the same.

Last time, every insult against me had been a joke.

Every rumor had been gossip.

Every threat had been a misunderstanding.

Until I died.

Then everyone suddenly claimed they hadn't known how serious it was.

Not this time.

I opened my notebook.

“Then please investigate who wrote it.”

Mrs. Hart stared at me for a moment before turning toward the class.

“Whoever did this needs to come forward.”

Silence.

“Fine. We'll discuss it later.”

She started the lesson.

I didn't argue.

I already knew exactly how this school handled problems.

That was why I had prepared before coming.

At lunch, the forum exploded again.

Someone had uploaded a video of my confrontation with Mason.

Another student posted a picture of my desk.

The comments divided immediately.

“Okay, writing that on her desk is too far.”

“She literally just had surgery. Leave her alone.”

“Why is everyone acting like Greer's original post proved anything?”

“Still waiting for Greer to explain why SHE was at OB-GYN.”

That last comment already had more than three hundred likes.

I smiled.

Then a new post appeared.

Greer Pierce had uploaded a screenshot.

It was supposedly a hospital visitor record.

According to the document, her uncle had been admitted to the hospital that week.

The caption read:

“Since some people refuse to stop spreading lies about me, here's proof. I was visiting family. Can we end this now?”

Her supporters flooded the replies.

“There. Happy now?”

“Imogen owes Greer an apology.”

“Imagine accusing someone because you're embarrassed about your own abortion.”

I stared at the screenshot.

Then I zoomed in.

Greer had made one mistake.

A very small one.

The hospital name was correct.

Her uncle's name was correct.

Even the admission date looked correct.

But I remembered what I had learned in my previous life.

Greer's uncle had indeed been hospitalized that month.

Just not at that hospital.

He had been admitted to St. Vincent Medical Center across town.

The document on my screen was fake.

I took a screenshot before she could delete it.

Then I opened my email.

Before leaving my apartment that morning, I had already sent a formal request to the school administration asking them to preserve all security footage related to the harassment against me.

I had also emailed the hospital's patient privacy office.

I hadn't asked them for Greer's records.

That would have been illegal.

I had asked something much simpler.

Whether the visitor-record format Greer was now displaying was a document their hospital even issued.

At 12:47 p.m., their response arrived.

I opened it.

My smile widened.

The hospital did not use that form.

It never had.

I returned to Greer's post.

Thousands of people were waiting for my response.

I attached the hospital's email.

Then I typed:

“Interesting proof.”

“The hospital says this document doesn't exist.”

I hit send.

For several seconds, nothing happened.

Then the replies began pouring in.

“WHAT?”

“Wait, is Greer's proof fake?”

“She forged a hospital document?”

“Why would she fake proof if she was actually visiting her uncle?”

“Greer, explain.”

“GREER?”

Across the cafeteria, a chair scraped violently against the floor.

I looked up.

Greer was standing beside her table.

Her face had gone completely white.

Our eyes met across the room.

This time, I smiled first.