Chapter 62 Chapter 62
Emily's POV
The whispers didn’t stop. That was the strange part. When the scandal first exploded, some naïve part of me thought the chaos would burn hot and fast, then disappear once people found a new distraction. But gossip at Westview didn’t die. It evolved, it shifted shape and spread into quieter places. Now it lived in lowered voices when I walked into lecture halls. In the sudden silence that followed my name. In phones angled slightly too carefully in my direction. In comments online dissecting my facial expressions like strangers had the right to decide what my emotions meant.
At first, it had hollowed me out, every stare felt personal, every rumor felt sharp enough to leave marks. But something had changed over the last few days, or maybe I had. I noticed it while walking across campus that morning. The air was cold enough to sting my lungs, the trees lining the pathways swaying gently in the wind while students flooded the sidewalks between classes. Westview looked beautiful in autumn, the brick buildings were glowing gold under early sunlight, leaves crunching beneath hurried footsteps, the fountain near the student center sparkling under pale morning light. It looked normal, which almost felt offensive considering how messy everything underneath it still was.
I adjusted the strap of my bag higher on my shoulder and kept walking. A group of girls standing near the library entrance glanced at me and then immediately leaned towards each other, whispering. One of them looked directly at me for half a second too long before quickly looking away. A week ago, that would’ve ruined the rest of my day. Today, I just kept walking, not because it didn’t hurt. It did. I was still human, still aware of every judgment thrown in my direction. But the difference now was that I no longer felt like I needed their approval to survive it.
My phone buzzed in my coat pocket. Another notification. I ignored it. I had learned quickly that opening social media before noon was essentially voluntary psychological warfare. At first, I read everything. Every accusation. Every opinion. Every thread analyzing whether I manipulated Noah for professional gain. It became impossible not to internalize it. Because when enough people repeat the same narrative, part of you starts wondering if maybe they are seeing something you missed. But then Noah stood in front of cameras and publicly took the weight of it. And that changed something inside me, I still didn’t fully know how to describe. Not because he “saved” me. I didn’t need saving. But because he stood beside me when the easier option would’ve been self-preservation. And once someone does that, it becomes harder to believe the world’s version of them over your own.
I climbed the steps towards the medical sciences building, pushing through the heavy glass doors into the warm lobby. The second I entered, I felt it again. People noticing me. A few students sitting near the entrance glanced up immediately. One nudged another. Whispering followed. I kept moving. My posture remained straight. My expression was neutral. I used to think strength looked like emotional distance. Now I was starting to realize it looked more like endurance. The ability to remain yourself while people tried to rewrite you into something easier to judge.
I made it halfway down the corridor before hearing my name. “Emily.”
I turned automatically. A girl from one of my advanced rehabilitation seminars stood near the lockers, arms crossed tightly over her chest. Sabrina. We weren’t friends, exactly. But we had worked together on group projects before. She had always been polite. Until now, apparently. “Do you have a second?” she asked. Her tone already told me this wasn’t going to be pleasant.
I nodded. “Sure.”
A few nearby students slowed down subtly. Just enough to listen. Sabrina stepped closer. “I just think,” she said carefully, “People deserve honesty.”
I felt my stomach tighten. I knew where this was going. “I haven’t lied about anything,” I said calmly.
Her brows lifted. “Seriously?”
“Yes.”
She laughed once under her breath, disbelieving. “You really expect people to believe this wasn’t calculated?” The accusation sitting underneath everything. It was calculated, manipulative and strategic like my entire existence revolved around attaching myself to someone else’s reputation.
I held her gaze steadily. “What exactly do you think I calculated?”
“You got visibility,” she said immediately. “Connections...Attention.”
As if attention was some kind of reward. As if the last few weeks hadn’t felt like being dissected alive in public. “I also got harassed online,” I said evenly.
She crossed her arms tighter. “But you still benefited.”
The hallway felt quieter now. People listening without pretending not to. I felt every pair of eyes nearby. Waiting and judging. Expecting me to break, lash out or shrink. I didn’t want to give them any of those things because I was tired. Tired of defending myself like my existence required permission. Tired of carrying shame for something that stopped being fake a long time ago. Tired of acting like caring about Noah somehow erased my intelligence or ambition.
Sabrina looked at me expectantly. “You used him,” she said. She was cruel in the casual way people became cruel when they thought they were morally justified. For a moment, old instinct rose immediately. To defend and explain, potentially over-clarifying. Make myself smaller so the situation felt easier to control. But then I thought about Noah standing on that practice field yesterday. All focused. Unafraid of being seen beside me.
I looked directly at her. “No,” I said calmly. My voice didn’t shake and it didn’t crack. “I stood beside him.”
Sabrina blinked slightly. Probably because I didn’t sound defensive. I sounded certain. And I realized that I was. Not about everything or about the future or about how this would end, about him and us. Even in the middle of this mess, especially in the middle of this mess.
She stared at me for another second. Searching for something. Guilt, maybe or embarrassment. I didn’t give her any.
She scoffed softly, “Well. Good luck with that." She said before she walked away.
The hallway slowly resumed movement around us. Conversations restarted. Footsteps echoed again, but I remained still for a second longer, just breathing. Not because I was falling apart, because I wasn’t. A few weeks ago, that confrontation would’ve destroyed me internally. I would’ve replayed it for hours. Questioned myself endlessly afterwards and wondered if everyone secretly agreed with her. It still hurt, but it didn’t define me. And that difference mattered more than I could explain.
I walked into class a few minutes later and took my seat near the front. The professor started discussing case studies on shoulder instability and long-term athlete rehabilitation, but my focus drifted occasionally despite myself. Not away from the material, but towards memory. Noah laughing quietly in the kitchen over coffee, him looking at me like silence wasn’t something that needed fixing. Noah saying I’m not stepping back with a certainty that still lived somewhere beneath my ribs. The realization crept in slowly over the course of the lecture.
I wasn’t afraid of being associated with him anymore. I was afraid of losing what existed between us because other people decided it was inconvenient. That truth felt terrifying. And oddly clarifying at the same time.
After class, I stepped outside into the courtyard again. The campus buzzed around me, students rushing between buildings, bikes cutting across pathways, voices blending into the constant noise of university life. My phone buzzed again. This time I checked it. There was a message from Noah.
Noah: Practice survived. Shoulder intact.
I stared at it for a second before smiling despite myself and then another message appeared immediately after.
Noah: Barely.
A laugh escaped me before I could stop it. And suddenly the outside noise felt farther away. I typed back.
Emily: Miraculous considering your pain tolerance is dramatically exaggerated.
Three dots appeared instantly.
Noah: That’s emotional abuse from a medical professional.
I shook my head softly, still smiling. And standing there in the middle of campus with whispers still lingering around me and headlines still floating online and uncertainty still hanging over everything, I realized something important. Fear had stopped making my decisions for me. It was enough that I could stand in the middle of judgment and still recognize myself. Enough that I could care about someone publicly without immediately apologizing for it. Enough that I could survive being misunderstood, because strength wasn’t becoming untouchable. It was remaining honest while people tried to turn you into something simpler than the truth. And the truth was this...I hadn’t used Noah Harris. I had chosen him and I wasn’t ashamed of that.