Chapter 1: Exposure

The smell of dry-erase markers and cafeteria tater tots clung to the air, making my stomach churn. The homeroom teacher found my love letter. She didn’t just call my parents—she made my mom stand up and read it out loud to everyone.

My heart hammered in my chest. I could feel every thud echo in my ears, drowning out the whispers and snickers around me. My palms were slick with sweat as I realized there was no escape. It felt like I’d been tossed in front of a firing squad, everyone waiting for the first shot.

Panic crawled up my spine, turning my thoughts to static. Every muscle in my body tensed, my knees wobbling like I might just sink through the cheap linoleum floor. My mind raced with ways to run, hide, or just disappear. I prayed for the bell to ring, for a fire alarm—anything to save me.

Because the girl I love so deeply—God, I can’t even look at her right now—is the homeroom teacher herself.

The secret burned inside me, shame and longing twisted together. The very person orchestrating my humiliation was the one I’d been writing about. I felt dizzy, trapped by my own reckless heart.

I desperately wanted to stop everything, but my dad stood next to me, his face red with embarrassment, pressing firmly on my shoulder to keep me in place.

His work-roughened hand gripped my shoulder, a silent command not to make things worse. He stared at the floor, jaw clenched, not looking at anyone.

My mom stood at the front of the classroom, her whole body trembling with shame.

She clutched her purse tightly, her knuckles white, casting pleading glances at the teacher. The low hum of fluorescent lights seemed louder than ever, filling the awkward silence.

The homeroom teacher said coldly, "Senior year is the most important time of your life, but some students clearly have their minds elsewhere. Who knows what they're thinking about?"

Her heels clicked across the scuffed tile, the squeak of the old whiteboard markers echoing as she glared at me. She sounded more like a principal than a teacher, her words sharp and heavy, and a few students snickered nervously.

She picked up my love letter and went on, "I found this during morning announcements, while checking your desk. Now, let your mother read it aloud, with feeling. 'Dear who?' Who is your 'dear'?"

She waved the letter in the air like a piece of evidence at a trial. The class shifted in their seats, eyes wide, some trying to stifle nervous laughter, others hiding behind their hands.

She handed the letter to my mom.

My mom, lost and helpless, took the letter and pleaded in a low voice, "Ms. Parker, my child has some dignity too. Can't we handle this in private?"

Her voice cracked, and she glanced desperately at the classroom windows as if searching for a way out. Parents rarely set foot in the classroom, let alone for something like this.

"Early romance is the one thing our school absolutely cannot tolerate. If I don't make an example today, how will I manage this class in the future?"

Ms. Parker folded her arms, chin lifted. She sounded like she’d said this speech a dozen times before, but now it landed like a gavel strike.

"My son only wrote a love letter—he didn't even give it out. He wanted to wait until after graduation."

My mom's words were soft but urgent, hands shaking as she clung to the letter. She shot my dad a helpless look, hoping for backup.

"It's wrong for him to even have those thoughts. If you, as parents, aren't willing to read it today, then take him home to think about it for a week."

Ms. Parker's gaze was icy, her lips pressed into a line. The students fidgeted, exchanging wide-eyed glances as if someone had just announced a pop quiz.

My mom immediately fell silent.

Her shoulders slumped, defeated. I could see the hurt in her eyes—she hated this as much as I did, maybe more.

My dad couldn't help but speak up: "Ms. Parker, then we'll read it. If he misses a week now, he might never catch up—senior year’s everything."

He cleared his throat, voice rough with pride and frustration. He glanced at me, his eyes saying, "Hang in there. We'll get through this."

The homeroom teacher nodded. "Fine. Read it aloud, so the whole class can hear. Who is his 'dear'? Who is he writing to?"

She looked at the clock, tapping her foot. A few students leaned forward, barely breathing. I could feel the tension in the air—like we were all waiting for a storm to break.

She opened the letter with shaking hands, her voice catching. For a moment, I thought she might refuse, but then she started—so quietly I almost wished no one could hear: "I still remember your gentle gaze, your hair falling across your shoulders in the sunset, carrying a faint scent of lavender. I don't know why you wear glasses now, your hair tied in a ponytail, always acting so cold to everyone."

Her voice wavered on the words, the intimacy of them making her voice go almost silent. The class went pin-drop quiet, everyone listening. A couple of kids shot each other looks—realizing this wasn't just a crush on a classmate.

The whole class stared at me in shock.

Someone in the back let out a soft, "No way," and another girl covered her mouth. My face burned so hot I thought I might faint. I dug my nails into my palm, desperate to anchor myself.