The autumn chill wrapped around the campus—crisp and biting. And yet, Ili felt warmer than he had in weeks.
Not because things had gotten easier.
But because he had endured.
The rumors had dragged him through hell.
Isolation. Whispers. Eyes that wouldn't meet his.
He had carried their weight alone, through hallways that felt too long, through classrooms that closed in on him like walls.
For weeks, he had teetered on the edge of something he never wanted to name.
But now—
Something had shifted.
It started with the looks.
Not of judgment. Not of suspicion.
But something else.
Regret.
A few students—ones who had once whispered in hushed voices—slowed as he passed, their eyes uncertain. Hesitant.
And then—
They spoke.
"Hey, uh…" A guy from his elective scratched the back of his neck, avoiding direct eye contact. "Just wanted to say… I never believed that stuff about you."
He let out a breath, awkward and quick. "People talk too much. You're alright."
Ili didn't flinch. He didn't drop his guard.
But he held the guy's gaze.
And the guy meant it.
Before he could reply, another voice, quieter:
"Sorry about all that nonsense," a girl murmured as she passed, barely pausing. "People can be idiots."
The words hit different.
Not because they erased what had happened.
But because someone finally said it.
For a long time, Ili had questioned himself. Wondered if he had imagined it—if maybe it hadn't been that bad. If he'd been overreacting.
But now—
They saw it too.
He let out a slow breath, rolling his shoulders back.
And then—
"Hey, Ili."
He turned toward the voice.
It was a girl from one of his general courses. A familiar face, someone he hadn't seen in a while.
She hesitated, fidgeting with the strap of her bag.
"Where's Kouko?" she asked gently. "I thought you two were always together."
His expression remained unreadable. But something stirred in his chest.
Kouko.
Even now, people still said her name beside his. As if their story hadn't fractured.
A flash of her shielding him from Tatsuya hit him like a pulse.
Defending him.
Fighting for him.
Even when she doubted.
Even when the whispers got to her.
She had always come back.
"…She's around," Ili said quietly.
The girl nodded, looking relieved. "That's good."
She hesitated again, then added, even softer,
"I'm really sorry. About everything. It must've been awful."
Awful barely scratched the surface.
But Ili didn't answer right away.
He just stood there.
Strong. Steady.
Even if it had broken him inside.
Even if there had been nights he stared at the ceiling, wondering if it would ever stop.
He had endured.
And that had to mean something.
"Hey."
Ili turned again.
The confident literature girl.
The one with the sharp tongue. The one who didn't waste her words.
She stood a few feet away, watching him—not with pity, not with apology. But with something more... grounded.
He lifted a brow. "Yeah?"
She tapped her pen against her notebook—casual, but deliberate.
"Just checking."
A pause.
Then, her voice dropped low:
"People say a lot of things. Doesn't mean they're true."
She didn't look at him.
Didn't wait for a reply.
Didn't expect anything back.
She just left the words there, like a quiet offering.
Ili stared at her for a moment.
Then—
He let out a breath of a laugh.
"Thanks."
She gave a small nod. That was enough.
And finally, the whispers found their way to him.
Soft.
Unfiltered.
Carried between desks and across benches—by students who thought he wasn't listening.
"Turns out it wasn't even true."
"Tatsuya started the whole thing, didn't he?"
"Yeah, and now he's gone. Serves him right."
Ili's heart clenched.
So, they knew.
That all of it—
Every lie.
Every stare.
Every moment he had been made to feel small—
Had come from Tatsuya.
And yet—
No one had stood up for him when it mattered.
He could have let that consume him.
But he didn't.
Not because it didn't matter.
But because it wouldn't define him anymore.
With a steady breath, he adjusted the strap of his bag and walked toward the lecture hall.
For the first time in weeks—
He walked forward.
Not as a rumor.
Not as a shadow.
Just… himself.
And somehow—
He wasn't walking alone.