CONFERMATION

The whispers had been swirling around since morning. By the time I settled into my seat, they had sharpened, becoming more frantic, like kids trying to solve a puzzle without any idea of what the final picture should look like.

I pretended to jot down notes, my pen scratching out gibberish on the page, but in reality, I was all ears. Just bits and pieces, nothing concrete.

“She’s from first year, I think—”

“No one’s saying her name, but…”

“…fell from the roof, right?”

Each half-finished sentence felt like a thread tugging at me, tightening the knot in my chest.

Then, the classroom door clicked open. Mrs. Westwood walked in, her usual calm demeanor replaced by something heavy and strained.

The chatter died down almost immediately. Even the class clown, who always had a quip ready, fell silent.

She stood at the front for what felt like an eternity, hands clasped in front of her, as if she were searching for the right words. Finally, she broke the silence.

“Classes are dismissed for the day. Please, gather your things.”

Confused murmurs rippled through the room. A hand shot up from the middle row.

“Why? What’s going on?”

Mrs. Westwood’s gaze swept over us, lingering just a moment too long before she spoke. Her voice was slower than usual, each word heavy with meaning.

“There’s been… an incident. One of our students has passed away.”

The atmosphere shifted. Not a single chair creaked. Not a whisper broke the stillness. The silence felt almost suffocating.

She swallowed hard, her eyes darting down to the paper in her hands. When she spoke again, her voice trembled just a bit.

“Ellie Reid. Class 10-B. The cause of death was ruled a suicide… she fell from the roof late two days ago.”

A collective gasp swept through the room, quickly followed by a surge of voices.

“No way…”
“Ellie? Who’s that?”
“Why would she—?”
“She seemed fine just the other day…”

And then, all eyes turned to me. I didn’t budge. I just sat there, my notebook open, staring at the blank page as if the words might magically appear.

I had convinced myself time and again that it couldn’t be her. That the rumors were just that—whispers spun by bored people looking for something to talk about.

But now… it was real.

The knot in my chest tightened, feeling like it was squeezing the breath right out of me, yet on the outside, I was calm. Too calm.

As if my body hadn’t caught up with what my mind already understood.

Around me, desks scraped against the floor as people gathered their bags in a daze. Some faces were pale, others already streaked with tears, but most were caught somewhere between disbelief and morbid curiosity.

Elise passed my desk on her way out, her usually sharp gaze softened. She opened her mouth, hesitated, then closed it again, walking away without saying a word.

Good.
I didn’t want to hear anything.
Not right now.

As the building emptied out, the halls were filled with the echoes of scattered conversations snippets of theories, gasps, and whispers about suicide notes and rooftop access.

I drifted through it all like a ghost, each sound brushing past me but never really settling in.

Outside, the gray sky felt heavier than usual, pressing down on the academy. The air carried a faint scent of rain.

I didn’t head home right away. Instead, I wandered. The streets blurred together as I shoved my hands into my pockets, my thoughts spiraling around the same point over and over.

Ellie.
Ellie Reid.

The name sliced through my mind, sharp and painful every time it surfaced.

Night fell softly around me. I was perched on my bed, cradling a lukewarm mug of coffee, the TV humming in the background, though I wasn’t really paying attention.

That was until her name flashed across the screen again.

“…Rohan Reid, CEO of Crown Entertainment Group, has issued a statement following the tragic death of his daughter, Ellie Reid.”

I froze in place.
The mug hovered mid-air, forgotten.

Now, the man himself filled the screen, standing at a podium. Dressed in an expensive suit, his tie perfectly in place. His eyes were red—not from tears, but from sheer exhaustion. He was holding it together, just barely.

The room was packed with reporters, cameras flashing like lightning.

“My daughter…” His voice wavered slightly on that word. He cleared his throat, trying to regain his composure. “My daughter, Ellie Reid, was taken from us far too soon. She was bright. Talented. Kind.”

He gripped the podium tighter, his knuckles turning white.
“But Ellie faced bullying. Day in and day out, she endured cruelty that no child should ever have to experience. And it broke her.”

His words landed heavily, like stones dropped into a still pond. Even through the screen, you could feel the impact.

Reporters leaned in, pens scratching furiously, eager for what would come next.

Then he said it.
“I want to make this clear.” His tone sharpened, slicing through the noise. “To those who hurt her… I forgive you.”

Gasps rippled through the press room. Whispers buzzed like a disturbed hive.

Forgive?

“My daughter’s legacy will not be tainted by anger or revenge,” Rohan continued, his voice steady now. “Hatred only breeds more hatred. Ellie deserves so much better than that.”

The shockwave was immediate. Hands shot up, voices overlapping in a chaotic frenzy.

“Does this mean no legal action will be pursued?”

“What message does this send to other victims of bullying?”

“Mr. Reid, do you genuinely believe forgiveness is the solution here?”

Rohan raised his hand, bringing silence to the room.
“That’s enough.”

With that, he turned away from the podium and strode out, leaving a crowd of shocked reporters behind him.

The anchor came back on screen, attempting to summarize the chaos, but I had tuned out.

I sat there, the mug growing cold in my grip, my gaze lost in the void.

“Forgive them.”
That’s what he had said.

For some reason, those two words echoed in my mind louder than the news of her passing.

I stayed put after that statement, my gaze locked onto the empty monitor, though I wasn’t really seeing it anymore.

Forgiveness? Just thinking about it leaves a bitter taste in my mouth. It almost makes me chuckle at how naive that sounds. But laughter feels like a waste of breath.

I lean back in my chair, a faint smile creeping onto my lips.

Those who preach forgiveness are often the ones who’ve never truly faced the darker side of human nature. Strip away the masks, the laws, the rules... and what’s left is just hunger and fear. In that abyss, forgiveness doesn’t stand a chance.

For a brief moment, though, the idea gnaws at me. A memory flashes—cold walls, distant screams, the harsh lights of Project Nemesis.

Could I have ever forgiven them, even for a second? The thought crumbles as quickly as it appears. No. Forgiveness is a sign of weakness. And weakness? That gets you buried.

I wrap my fingers around the coin I always flip when I’m deep in thought, the metal glinting in the dim light. I don’t flip it this time. I just hold it, feeling the edges dig into my skin.

“Forgiveness,” I murmur into the empty room, my voice flat. “That’s one luxury I’ll never be able to afford.”

Then I power down the monitor completely, plunging myself into darkness.