People talk. Nonsense mostly. Though I pay it no mind—I hardly ever do. I've spent all my life with my head in the books. Whatever the gossip may be, it goes in one ear and out the next. Though it's hard—I'll admit. Especially when it happens to be about your girlfriend. The one person whom I love and care for. The one that stands by me, as I do her.  The words spread like wildfire. Inextinguishable, because it's far too late to save anything now. What's left is burned to ashes and left to wither away in the wind.

I keep my head down. Like I always have. Only this time, I'm actually listening. I know a part of me will deeply resent my future self for even letting me sit through this and not do anything about it. What kind of partner does that make me? A terrible one, perhaps.

The conversation spreads through the room like a virus—in seconds, it's out. One room after another until it's a burning hell.

What am I meant to do when people think my girlfriend is not who she says she is? A con artist one says. A terrible and awful person says another. I try to keep calm but my blood is boiling. I'm at my tipping point.

"Isn't her girlfriend that really pretty one?"

The guy in front of the classroom nods happily, "Yeah, she's in our class dumbass."

I feel eyes all around me. I hate being perceived. I'd rather be dug up six feet under than be the center of attention in a room this small.

The seat beside me is empty. It's become a hot topic. 'Where is Riley Marsh today?' a segment popularly created by the wannabe blonde in the second row. The blonde looks terrible.

I haven't been able to reach her. It's become a hassle. I have little to no excuses left to tell anyone about the whereabouts of my girlfriend. Heck, I don't even know where she is.

I drop my head onto the textbook laid flat against my desk. The words are deeply engraved into deepest parts of my brain—making my head throb. All these rumours and lies and ridiculous assumptions.

They don't know Riley.

But then again, do I?

The question sits deep into my chest as I try to find a way to breathe. It's become a daily occurrence I've realised—an inconvenient one at most. I can still hear all the commotion as I try to block out all the noise but it's no use.

It's all getting to me.

Who I believe in is the even bigger question?

Does that falter my loyalty?

The words sink deeper and it goes on endlessly until I feel my body erupt with the type of anger that I've never ever felt before in my life.

I fear this is only just the beginning. Where do I go from here when all I really want to do is go home and wake up from this hellish nightmare.

The things I would do to pray to every God,

To every universe,

To every version of me,

To every version of her,

To the invisible string that ties us together,

That this is nothing more than a foolish dream.

This isn't your reality, Mason. I repeat it carefully in my head. Over and over, like a broken record, hoping with every breath that I take that this isn't real.