Marceline's Dorm Room – Midday
The suitcase lay open like a wound at the foot of the bed, clothes carelessly tossed inside as if fleeing a battlefield. The walls, once warm with laughter and whispered secrets, now echoed with the ragged sound of Marceline's breath.
She sat on the edge of the mattress, shoulders slumped, hands trembling as she folded the last of her shirts—every motion brittle, mechanical.
"Celine, stop," Cora's voice cracked, more a plea than a command. She paced behind her, fists clenched at her sides. "You need to stop crying. This wasn't your fault. That bastard—he played you. No one saw this coming. Not even me."
Marceline swiped at the tears tracing silent paths down her cheeks. Her eyes were glassy and hollow as if the soul inside her had already started to slip away.
"I have to go," she murmured, barely audible. Her voice was frayed like an old ribbon pulled too tight for too long. "I can't stay here."
Cora's footsteps halted. "You're leaving?" Her voice rose, sharp with disbelief. "You're seriously leaving?"
Marceline didn't look up. She reached for her charger, winding it tightly. "I don't dare to walk through those halls again. Not with everyone looking at me like that. Whispering."
"You didn't do anything wrong," Cora snapped. "He used you! Humiliated you—and now you're going to vanish like you're the villain in this story?"
"I am the villain in their eyes," Marceline whispered, stuffing the charger into her bag. "And maybe... maybe I deserve to be. I let myself believe in him. In his lies. I let him touch parts of me that no one ever had—and he threw it all to the wolves."
Cora's throat bobbed with emotion. "What are you going to tell your mother?" she asked softly.
"School's closing in a few weeks," Marceline replied, brushing her hair behind her ear with a trembling hand. "I'll tell her I just needed a break. Nothing more."
"That's not going to hold," Cora said. "You know it. She's going to be disappointed—"
"I know," Marceline cut in. Her voice cracked, shattering what little control she had left. "She warned me. Told me not to get close to him. That he was danger-wrapped in charm. But I didn't listen."
Her hands clenched around a sweater—his sweater. She stared at it for a long moment before tossing it into the trash.
"I thought he loved me," she whispered. "God, I was so stupid."
Tears slid freely now, unchecked and burning. Each one held the weight of betrayal, the sting of humiliation. She pressed a palm against her chest like she could stop the ache threatening to pull her apart.
Cora's own eyes brimmed with tears. She stepped forward, pulling Marceline into a fierce hug.
"Stop blaming yourself, Celine," she whispered into her friend's hair. "You don't deserve this. Not any of it."
And in that quiet dorm room filled with broken dreams and half-packed bags, two girls clung to each other—one trying to hold herself together, and the other trying to hold her up.
A while later, the door clicked open.
The hallway beyond was quiet, almost reverent. Her suitcase wheels whispered against the floor as she stepped into the corridor, head held high. Cora followed a few steps behind, silent support in her eyes.
But they weren't alone.
Students lingered by doors and stairwells, pretending to scroll through their phones, whispering behind their hands. The echo of her scandal clung to the walls like mold.
Marceline kept her gaze forward, unflinching, even as her heart cracked with every step. Let them look. Let them speak.
She was walking through fire.
And she would rise from it.
Outside, the air was brisk and biting. She paused at the edge of the dorm steps and turned to look back just once. Her jaw trembled, but she didn't cry.
Not here.
"I'll come visit," Cora promised, her voice thick.
Marceline smiled, fragile but real. "Thank you—for not giving up on me."
Then, without another word, she turned and walked into the afternoon sun. Every step away from the dorm was a step toward something new. Toward healing. Toward herself.
Even if she had to rebuild from nothing, she would rise again.
. … … … .
Mrs Valino Apartment:
The taxi pulled away with a soft cough of exhaust, leaving Marceline Valino standing alone at the gate—her silence louder than the world behind her.
She gripped the handle of her suitcase tighter, the metal biting into her palm. But she didn't let go.
The house loomed ahead, warm lights spilling through the windows like nothing had changed. Like she hadn't been shattered into a hundred jagged pieces. Like she hadn't buried something irreplaceable—something she'd never even had the chance to love.
She climbed the steps slowly, each one heavier than the last, and rang the doorbell.
Just pretend everything's fine. Smile. Breathe. Don't fall apart.
The bell chimed, bright and cheerful—mocking her. A cruel sound for someone carrying a graveyard inside her chest.
The door opened.
"Marceline?"
Jennie stood there, wide-eyed, blinking like she was staring at a ghost.
A weak smile tugged at Marceline's lips, brittle at the edges. "Hey, sis."
"What are you doing here?" Jennie asked, her voice caught between confusion and delight.
"Shouldn't I come in before you start the interrogation?" Marceline tried to tease. Her tone didn't match the shadow in her eyes.
Jennie laughed and stepped aside. "Right, right. Sorry."
The moment she stepped inside, the familiar scent of lemon polish and jasmine surrounded her—once comforting, now suffocating. A scent that belonged to memories she no longer trusted.
Her suitcase thunked gently against the tiled floor as she set it down, posture rigid, smile still painted on like armor.
Jennie's brows furrowed. "You okay, Celine?"
Marceline turned, avoiding her sister's eyes. "Why do you ask that?"
"Your eyes…" Jennie stepped closer. "They're all swollen. Have you been crying?"
Before she could answer, a voice sliced through the room like a blade.
"Why are you back so soon?"
Marceline froze. Her spine straightened instinctively, as though every nerve in her body was preparing for war.
Amanda Valino stood on the staircase in a robe, her arms crossed, her expression unreadable but sharp. Always sharp.
"I finished exams early," Marceline lied smoothly. "Thought I'd come home and rest."
Amanda studied her for a long, suffocating second.
"Is anything wrong, Celine?"
"No," she said, the word cracking slightly. "I just… missed you."
Amanda nodded slowly, almost suspiciously. "Jennie, get your sister something to eat."
Without another glance, she disappeared into the hallway.
Marceline exhaled a breath she hadn't realized she was holding.
"So…" Jennie said with a sheepish grin, "you said you'd bring your boyfriend home this time. Where is he?"
Her heart clenched like a fist in her chest.
"Can we not talk about that right now?" she whispered.
Jennie blinked, surprised, then softened. "Okay. I'll get you something. Go freshen up."
She padded toward the kitchen, still oblivious to the wreckage Marceline was dragging behind her like chains.
Suitcase in hand, Marceline climbed the stairs—each step echoing like a funeral bell. Her body was moving, but her soul felt far behind.
---
The Bathroom
The door clicked shut behind her.
Marceline stood still, staring at the spotless tiles, the folded towels, and the scent of lavender soap. Everything looked the same. But everything had changed.
She locked the door.
And collapsed.
Her knees hit the cold tile with a muted thud, hands gripping the edge of the sink as if it could anchor her. Her reflection stared back at her—eyes red and puffy, lips pale, her face a stranger's.
"You're disgusting. Just like your mother."
His voice came unbidden—Cross. His words were engraved into her like a brand.
She squeezed her eyes shut and dug her nails into her palms until sharp pain grounded her in the present. But even that wasn't enough to stop the memories from bleeding through.
She'd given him everything.
Her love. Her trust. Her body.
And when she'd needed him most—when her whole world was crumbling—he hadn't answered. Not one call. Not even a text.
She had lost their child alone.
Tears fell silently, soaking into her shirt. No wails. No sobs. Just a quiet, unending ache.
The kind of pain that hollowed a person from the inside out.
She shoved a towel into her mouth to stifle the sound that almost escaped. Not here. Not in this house. She couldn't be weak. Not again.
Minutes passed—or hours. Time didn't matter anymore.
Eventually, she stood.
She wiped her face. Smoothed her hair. She looked into the mirror until she didn't see a girl shattered by love but a woman carved from loss and silence.
The tears had dried. The ache hadn't. But she was upright. And that was something.
Let him laugh now, she thought. Let him walk away.
One day, Cross Dejeva would regret the day he called her nothing.
… … … …
A week later.
The days blurred together like smeared ink on rain-soaked paper. Each morning, Marceline painted on a smile like a mask stitched to her skin—graceful, cheerful, composed. No one saw the cracks. No one heard the sobs that echoed against her bedroom walls once the lights were out.
Grief lingered in her bones. Guilt clung to her like a second skin.
She laughed at the dinner table. She asked about her sister's schoolwork. She watched sitcoms with Amanda.
And then, at night, she shattered quietly. Again. And again. And again.
Cross's silence had become a louder torment than his insults ever were.
He didn't even check. He didn't care enough to wonder what happened after he left.
The pain didn't fade with time—it only sharpened. A constant, low-burning agony in her chest, like a hot iron buried deep in her ribcage. Moving hurt. Breathing hurt. Existing felt like a betrayal to the girl she used to be.
And now—on top of it all—her body was beginning to feel foreign.
She'd woken up nauseous twice. Her chest ached. Her emotions swung between fury and despair with no warning. The food smelled wrong. Her skin felt tight.
She'd hoped it was stress. A hallucination. A cruel trick played by her own mind to make the heartache worse.
But after a hushed conversation with Cora—her only friend outside this house who knew the truth—she'd gone out quietly and returned with a pregnancy kit hidden deep inside her handbag.
It sat now in the drawer beside her bed like a ticking bomb. Untouched. Waiting. Heavy with meaning.
Jennie's voice snapped her back.
"Marceline, you haven't started eating yet."
She blinked and looked up, her spoon untouched. She hadn't even realized the bowl was full in front of her.
"I'm just a little distracted," she murmured, forcing a smile so brittle it could've cracked her face.
Jennie frowned but said nothing.
Amanda, however, was studying her with surgical precision.
"Marceline," she said sharply. "What's wrong with you?"
The question hit like a slap.
"What do you mean, Mother?" she asked, voice carefully composed.
"You've been acting strange," Amanda said. "This… this isn't like you."
Marceline kept her gaze level. Calm. "I'm fine, Mother. Just a little tired. You don't need to worry."
She lifted the spoon to her mouth and forced herself to swallow.
And instantly regretted it.
A wave of nausea slammed into her so hard she nearly dropped the spoon. Her throat burned. Her stomach churned violently.
She stood so fast her chair scraped against the floor.
Then she ran.
The bathroom door barely shut behind her before she dropped to her knees, clutching the toilet as she emptied what little she'd eaten.
Tears pricked at her eyes—not from pain, but from shame. Her hands trembled. Her body didn't feel like her own anymore. It felt hijacked by something unknown. Something terrifying.
She tried to rise.
The edges of her vision turned black. Her knees buckled.
And the world tipped sideways.
Her body collapsed to the cold tile.
The last thing she heard was Amanda's voice, distant and echoing, filled with something unfamiliar—panic.
"Marceline! Celine!"
Then silence.