The first few whispers hadn't bothered Shumaila.
She had expected people to talk. She had expected judgmental stares, the hushed conversations when she walked by, the occasional side-eye from students who had nothing better to do. But as the days passed, it became more than just whispers. It became a storm.
Taniya and her gang had done their job well.
It started small.
A couple of students shaking their heads when she walked past. A few muttered comments under their breath. Then it escalated.
By midweek, people weren't even trying to hide it.
"Surprised she still shows up to class after what she did."
"Guess betraying people comes naturally to her."
"Be careful. She might leak your work next."
"I bet she enjoys playing victim."
The words followed her everywhere—lecture halls, corridors, the library. It was as if her mere existence had become offensive to the student body.
The worst was when she tried to participate in class.
When she raised her hand, the professor's gaze would pass over her, calling on someone else instead. If she contributed to discussions, other students would barely acknowledge her points, some even scoffing or rolling their eyes.
If she offered to help someone in class, the response was instant rejection.
"Oh no, thanks. I'd rather not have my work 'accidentally' end up in someone else's hands."
"I think I can handle it. Wouldn't want my project mysteriously stolen."
"I'd rather fail than take her help."
Even in group assignments, people hesitated to pair up with her. Some openly expressed their discomfort, while others made excuses, pretending they already had partners. The isolation was growing, and the worst part was—
It was working.
Even professors seemed more distant, calling on her less and offering little feedback. The weight of it was suffocating, but Shumaila refused to let it show.
She walked with her usual confidence, her head held high, her expressions unreadable. Every time she heard a comment, she forced herself to ignore it, to pretend it didn't sting.
But inside, cracks were starting to form.
.....
"This is getting out of hand," Akansha muttered as they sat in the cafeteria, watching yet another student whisper and laugh after passing Shumaila. "People are taking this too far."
"It's not 'getting' out of hand," Siddarth said darkly. "It is out of hand."
Komal exhaled sharply. "We need to do something."
"Like what?" Aarav leaned back, running a hand through his hair. "The entire damn university has already decided she's guilty. Taniya and her minions played this too well."
Sneha crossed her arms. "We should talk to her. She's acting like it doesn't bother her, but I know it does."
"She won't admit it," Rudra said, shaking his head. "Shumaila is too damn stubborn to tell anyone when she's struggling."
"Still, we can't just sit here," Komal insisted. "She's our friend."
Aarav exhaled. "And what if we make it worse? The second we openly defend her, people are going to turn on us too. We'll just be playing right into Taniya's hands."
Siddarth frowned. "So we just let this happen?"
"No," Sneha said firmly. "We find another way. But first, we need to get through to her before she completely shuts us out."
Shumaila, meanwhile, remained silent through it all.
But every mocking comment, every rejected offer of help, every professor who glanced past her in class—it all chipped away at her. It wasn't just the isolation that stung. It was the injustice of it.
She knew she hadn't done anything wrong. She knew she hadn't leaked Hamza's project. And yet, here she was, being treated like she was some kind of criminal.
And there was only one person to blame.
Hamza.
If he hadn't accused her.
If he hadn't humiliated her in front of everyone.
If he had just trusted her instead of treating her like some backstabbing villain.
She clenched her fists, anger simmering beneath her cold exterior.
She had thought she was strong enough to handle anything. But this—this constant, unrelenting humiliation—it was starting to wear her down.
Hamza had ruined everything.
And she would never forgive him for it.