Her Voice In My Head

He shouldn't be here.

Not in front of her apartment. Not in this goddamn building.

Callum stood in front of door 14-B with his heart punching against his ribs, hand half-raised, the polished hallway silent except for the distant hum of a floor vent. The air smelled of lemon polish and clean linen. No trace of guilt or sin.

But that's what this was.

Sin.

He was sin incarnate standing here.

Every part of him screamed to turn around. To leave. To forget. To pretend the envelope never existed. To let it go.

But he couldn't.

That photo was real. And she was holding it over his head like a noose.

He raised his fist—nearly banged on the door—but then stopped.

Her code.

She gave it to him once.

He swallowed hard. Looked both ways.

Anyone could see him.

Anyone could remember his face.

He was a teacher standing outside a girl's apartment.

But when the lock clicked and he stepped inside, whatever script he'd prepared in his head—shouting, demanding, maybe even begging—shattered instantly.

Lara was on the floor.

Crying.

Tears streaked her cheeks. Her hair was a mess, lips trembling. But that wasn't what stopped him.

It was the photographs.

Scattered around her like wilted petals. Some crushed under her knees, others spread across the hardwood like a constellation of exposed secrets.

Pictures.

Of him.

Of them.

Together.

Her and him in the classroom. Talking after class. At the exploration expo, working on puzzles. Making the bulletin board. Sitting in the café.

He blinked.

One of the photos—taken the same day Ms. Kim and Nate were with them. But they weren't in it. Just him. And her.

And then—

The same photo he'd received. Of the kiss.

She looked up at him like he was the devil.

"Did you do this?" she hissed, voice cracked and broken.

He stepped back, startled. "What?"

She pointed at the floor, eyes blazing through her tears. "This! Did you do this? Are you watching me? Following me?"

"What the hell are you talking about—"

She punched his chest. Weakly at first. Then harder. Over and over. "What do you want from me? What do you want?"

He grabbed her wrists—not to hurt, just to still her. "Lara—"

She was shaking. Her whole body trembling like the weight of every secret had finally broken through.

"I thought it was you," she whispered. "Who else would... who else could?"

He let go. Fumbled into his coat pocket.

Pulled out his envelope.

Held it up.

The photo inside.

Same kiss. Same angle. Same goddamn lighting.

"You think I did this?" he asked, voice hollow. "You left me this. You sent this to me."

She stared at the picture.

Then looked at him like he'd lost his mind.

"What are you talking about?" she snapped. "You think I sent this?"

His voice wavered. "It was on my desk. In an envelope. Today. Just sitting there."

Lara's eyes widened. She turned, reached behind her—and held up the exact same envelope.

No name. No writing. No seal.

"Where did you see this?" she asked, her voice catching. "Because this—this was outside my door when I came home. And I opened it and—"

She motioned to the floor, to the dozens of photos. "What the fuck is this, Callum? Why are there pictures of us? Who is taking them?"

"I don't know!" His voice cracked. "I thought it was you—"

"I thought it was you!" she cried. "I thought you were stalking me, trying to ruin me!"

Callum staggered back and sat down hard on the armrest of her couch, his head swimming, the walls breathing in on him.

She dropped to her knees, grabbed a photo, her fingers trembling. "If someone finds these, I'm done. Do you understand? My name. My life. Everything—over."

He stared at her.

Then down at the envelope.

Blank. Deceptively plain.

There were no answers here.

Just panic.

Callum's thoughts spiraled like shards of glass in a storm. Who could have taken these? Who would have access—who could have gotten close enough, private enough, invisible enough to catch moments no one else should've seen?

Not just students. Not just staff. Someone with intent. Someone who knew.

And the more he tried to reason, the worse it got. His head pounded with possibilities—Mr. Reyes? A jealous student? The tech guy? A parent? Someone who had it out for him? For her? Both?

He couldn't breathe.

Across from him, Lara sat slumped, photos clutched to her chest. Her mascara smudged, her voice shaking.

"This will ruin me," she muttered. "It's already bad enough. People whisper about me. They think I'm a flirt just because I exist. Just because I talk. Just because I don't hide."

She laughed once, bitter. "Now they'll call me a whore. They'll say I slept my way to grades, to attention. Like everything I've worked for means nothing."

Her fingers dug into the prints. "They'll drag me through the dirt and no one will care because—because I'm me."

Callum swallowed, but it hurt. A tightness coiled in his throat, wrapped around his chest.

He couldn't tell what crushed him more—her fear, the photo, or the horrifying realization that he believed her.

His knees gave a little, and he dropped fully onto the couch, dizzy now, like the floor had tilted sideways.

Because nothing made sense.

And yet—it all felt real.