At the concert. The boy who bullied me for years was standing on stage, confessing his love to the girl of his dreams. “I was immature back then,” his voice echoed through the stadium speakers, thick with regret. “I only picked on you because I was desperate to get your attention.” “How are you doing these days? Wherever you are, this song is for you.” Everyone in the crowd was desperately whispering, trying to guess who the lucky girl could be. While I stood frozen in place. Because the girl described in those beautiful, longing lyrics… Was me. 1 I had just stepped out of my therapist’s office when the video popped up on my feed. It was Robert Shaw, the golden boy of the music industry, the prodigy everyone was obsessed with. He was looking straight into the camera, pouring his heart out to some unnamed high school sweetheart during his sold out arena tour. The crowd was deafening, screaming his name. On the massive screen, his face was blown up, showing every detail of that bright, effortlessly charming smile of his. He was reminiscing about a girl from his past. “After graduation, she just vanished,” Robert said, his voice laced with a bittersweet rasp that drove the fans wild. “I spent the entire night of graduation parked outside her building, waiting to tell her how I felt. But she never came down.” “This next song is for her. My first love. My only one.” The melancholic intro of the acoustic guitar swelled, and he began to sing. The lyrics painted a vivid portrait of a quiet, agonizing crush. Every line bled with the raw longing of a boy who had been too afraid to confess his love, yet so obvious about it. When the final chord faded, the stadium erupted in a frenzy of tears and screams. I stared at my phone screen, my chest tightening so hard I could barely breathe. The lyrics were beautifully written, capturing the fragile, heart wrenching fluttering of a secret romance. It detailed every stolen glance, every skipped heartbeat. But the girl Robert was singing about was me. The only problem was, Robert had never loved me. He was the monster who had spent three years tormenting me. “Lenore,” the nurse called out, pulling me back to reality. “You forgot your bag.” I forced my lips into a polite curve and took it from her. “Thank you.” She noticed the sudden paleness of my face. “Are you alright, dear? Remember what the doctor said. Try to avoid highly stressful situations. Take some walks, clear your head. And don’t forget to take your prescription.” “I will,” I whispered. When I got back to my tiny apartment, I opened up my socials. My fingers felt stiff, almost foreign to me, as I tapped the search bar. With trembling hands, I typed in Robert Shaw. Instantly, millions of results flooded my screen. Headlines screamed about his genius songwriting, calling him a once in a generation talent. Only a few rare, buried comments had anything bad to say about him. Robert Shaw. Enrolled at the prestigious Royal College of Music at eighteen. Released his debut album at nineteen. Now, at twenty two, he was selling out stadiums. I stayed up all night, scrolling through everything. I jumped from app to app, reading articles, fan theories, and forum threads. By the time the sky turned a pale, dusty gray, my eyes were swollen and burning. I found the original video of his concert confession. I tapped the comment section and typed three words. This sounds terrible. Then, I shut off my phone and pulled the covers over my head. When I finally woke up, the sun had already set, leaving my room in cold, heavy shadows. A dull ache pulsed behind my temples. It had been a fitful sleep, plagued by memories I had spent years trying to bury. I had dreamed of Westfield High. I dreamed of Robert. Back then, I was a ghost. I kept my head down, barely spoke, and blended into the dull beige walls of the classrooms. Until the second semester of junior year, when Robert transferred in. He was tall, strikingly handsome, and carried an effortless, cool guy attitude that had every girl in our year whispering and giggling the moment he walked through the door. The teacher assigned him the seat right behind mine. I was a wall of silence, but Robert was a storm of noise. He could talk to anyone about anything. On his first day, he asked to borrow my notes, praised my neat handwriting, and tried to strike up a conversation. I had never met anyone so relentlessly talkative. It made me incredibly uncomfortable. Even when I ignored him completely, he would just keep talking to himself, never seeming to tire of his own voice. But then, things shifted. Like many teenage boys seeking a reaction, Robert discovered how easy it was to get under my skin. It started with little things. He would hide my homework folders. Or, when he saw me zoning out during class, he would whisper that the teacher had called on me to go erase the blackboard. And because I was anxious, I would walk up and wipe the board clean, only to realize the teacher had just spent twenty minutes writing notes we still needed. The punishment was always the same: standing at the back of the classroom for the rest of the period. Whenever I glanced at Robert, he would just flash me a bright, mocking grin. I grew to despise him. I stopped acknowledging his existence. I went to the guidance counselor to beg for a desk reassignment, but she just brushed me off. “Robert has excellent grades, Lenore. Sitting near him might actually help bring your own scores up. Let us keep things as they are.” So, I was stuck. When Robert found out I had tried to move away from him, his smile turned sharp. “So, you don’t want to sit next to me?” he had asked. “No,” I replied coldly. After that, the petty teasing turned into a relentless, suffocating campaign. I dragged myself out of bed, went to the bathroom, and splashed cold water on my face. When I finally unlocked my phone, my screen was a barrage of notifications. Hundreds of hate comments and mocking messages. Are you kidding me? Some absolute nobody actually thinks Robert’s music is bad? Sure, sweetie. We get it, you are desperate for attention. Get lost, you pathetic loser! Keep your trash opinions to yourself. The replies under my comment were brutal, but the direct messages were even worse, filled with raw, venomous cruelty. I stared at the screen, and a cold, empty laugh escaped my throat. My therapist had warned me to avoid triggers. But seeing the boy who had ruined my life being praised as a romantic hero for loving me? There was no trigger worse than this. It felt like a switch flipped in my mind. A manic surge of energy washed over me. I went back to his page and left five more scathing reviews. Still not satisfied, I took screenshots of the vile messages his fans had sent me and posted them directly under his latest promotional post. Of course, a single hater’s voice was easily drowned out by the hundreds of thousands of adoring comments. Everyone was obsessing over who his mystery girl could be. She must be so gorgeous and talented. Imagine being loved by Robert Shaw. She must be the happiest girl in the world. I stared at those words. No. It was not a fairy tale. Being the target of Robert’s obsession was the darkest, most exhausting period of my life. If I could, I would drag him off that glittering stage. I wanted him in the dirt. If I had to drown in my own ruin, I would make sure he drowned right alongside me. The frenzy about Robert’s secret muse stayed pinned to the top of the trending charts for three solid days. It was everywhere. I could not even walk down the street without overhearing teenage girls talking about it. “I would give anything to know what she looks like,” one girl sighed to her friend as they walked home from school. “She has to be incredible. Robert is so sweet, so he would only fall for someone amazing. She must be really special to keep him hooked after all these years.” I watched them pass, my mind blank. Was he really that beloved? What gave him the right to be happy? Soon enough, someone claiming to be an old classmate joined the fray. At first, Robert’s fans attacked them, calling them a clout chaser. But then, the user uploaded our high school graduation photo. My eyes locked onto Robert immediately. He was in the center, smiling bright and handsome, still carrying a hint of boyish charm. He had not changed much, only grown more defined, more mature. Then, my eyes drifted to the third row, second from the right. There I was. My face was pale, my expression hollow and somber. I looked like a ghost haunting a celebration, completely out of place among the smiling faces of our peers. The comment section flooded with compliments. And then, someone zoomed in on me and left a comment: Wait, who is this girl? She looks so beautiful, like an indie movie actress. Within hours, that comment shot to the very top of the thread. And it got tens of thousands of likes. Because Robert’s official, verified account had liked it. The fandom went into a frenzy. They cross checked the account a thousand times to make sure it was not a glitch. It was him. People began speculating wildly. Was I the mystery muse? Some fans tagged him directly, begging for a confirmation, but he did not reply. I felt sick to my stomach just watching it. Then, my dusty old high school group chat suddenly sprang to life. Robert’s old high school buddies were tagging him frantically. Bro, what is going on? Is this about Lenore? After half an hour, Robert finally replied. Don’t start rumors. That single, vague word brought everyone out of hiding. The chat erupted with praise, calling him a legend, and someone floated the idea of a high school reunion. I shut my phone off, unable to look at it for another second. My sleep became progressively worse over the next few days. The nightmares returned, relentless and suffocating. Robert was the monster lurking in every shadow of my mind. I found myself back at the clinic. My therapist looked at my chart, her brow furrowing with deep concern. “Lenore, have you been facing any new stressors lately?” I let out a dry, bitter laugh. “Yes.” “I am trapped.” The nightmares woke me up in cold sweats, leaving me staring at the ceiling until dawn. It felt like I was caught in a labyrinth of his making. Everywhere I turned, his voice echoed, dissecting me, mocking me. I pressed my hands over my ears, but the noise would not stop. When I got home, I took photos of my new prescriptions. Then, I pulled out all my old medical files, dating back years. Every single diagnosis of severe anxiety and clinical depression. I scanned them, organized them, and saved them into a secure digital folder. Fate has a cruel sense of humor. I did not expect to run into him so soon. It was around eight in the evening. I had just finished delivering a bouquet to a client on the other side of town when my old scooter decided to die on the side of a busy road. Horns blared as cars sped past. It was just me, stranded in the cold dusk with a piece of useless metal. When it rains, it pours. I pulled off my helmet, letting the biting evening wind mess up my hair. As I reached into my pocket for my phone, a sleek, low profile black sedan pulled over beside me. The tinted window rolled down. “Lenore?” The voice was quiet, hesitant, as if speaking to a spirit that might dissolve into the mist. I turned. My heart seized in my chest. Fear. Pure, instinctual terror. That was my body’s immediate reaction to seeing his face. Robert stared at me, his eyes wide. “It really is you.” He made a move to open his door, but a hand reached out from the passenger seat to stop him. “Robert, don’t. Someone might recognize you.” “It’s fine,” he muttered. He pulled a black face mask over his nose and stepped out of the car anyway, standing tall under the flickering streetlights. I took an involuntary step back. “Let me give you a ride,” he said. Robert was tall. Six foot two, according to his online profile. But he had always towered over me. For a split second, the streetlights faded, and I was back in high school. I saw Robert holding my test paper high above his head, laughing as I jumped, unable to reach it. I had to drag a heavy wooden stool across the room just to claw it back. “Just a little higher, Lenore. You have almost got it,” he had mocked. The classroom had erupted in cruel, snickering laughter. I remembered the burning humiliation, the way my face had scorched red as I silently took my paper and crawled back to my desk. “It is rush hour,” Robert’s voice brought me back. “You won’t be able to call a ride out here.” I stared at him for a long, quiet moment. Then, I forced a sweet, delicate smile. “Thanks. That would be really helpful.” We sat in the back seat of the spacious sedan. Even with the room, his long legs meant his knee occasionally brushed against mine. Every time it happened, he flinched and pulled back, as if afraid he was burning me. My hands were shaking under my coat. To break the suffocating silence, Robert spoke up. “It is… been a long time.” I kept my eyes glued to my lap, pressing my hands together to stop the trembling. “Yeah. It has.” He turned his head to look at me. “Where did you end up going for college, Lenore?” “I didn’t go.” Thanks to him and the wreckage of my mental health, my senior year had been a haze of panic attacks and nausea. My grades plummeted, and my college plans vanished into thin air. Robert went quiet. He quickly shifted the subject. “I am a singer now. Have you… heard any of my stuff?” I let out a soft, breathy chuckle. “I saw the clips.” “Really?” His voice cracked slightly, a sudden burst of boyish excitement breaking through his carefully cultivated pop star persona. “Then, what did you… I mean, did you…” He was stammering, suddenly looking like an anxious teenager. “It is nice,” I said softly. The old Robert had treated me like a toy for his own amusement. Now, he was trembling in front of me. If his fans saw him like this, they would not believe it. He spent the rest of the drive talking about his career, his tours, his hectic life. I did not care. I did not want to hear it. But I sat there, playing the part of a polite, attentive listener. As the car pulled up near my neighborhood, Robert turned to me, his expression earnest. “Where did you go after graduation, Lenore? You just disappeared.” I offered a faint, distant smile. “My family moved.” He swallowed hard, his eyes searching mine. “Are you… seeing anyone right now?”
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