Ezra

Rumors always start in the dark.
Between the red lights of a nightclub, the clinking of glasses and the silhouettes that brush past each other without really seeing each other, a single misplaced glance is enough to create an entire story.

That night, Ezra was leaning against the bar, leather jacket draped over his shoulders, black shirt unbuttoned at the collar, impeccably tailored pleated trousers. The music vibrated through the walls, right down to his ribs. Your hands were around his neck as we danced in the middle of the crowd, and you laughed against his ear as if the world had ceased to exist.

Nobody recognized him.

At school, they only know him through silent classrooms, perfect grades, and pressed shirts. Ezra, the cold intellectual. Ezra who corrects teachers without raising his voice. Ezra who never sets foot in that kind of place.

So naturally, when a high school senior saw you against him under the fluorescent lights, she only saw one thing: you, cheating on your boyfriend with a stranger.

The following Monday, the corridors had become a courtroom.

Conversations stopped when you passed by the lockers. Some looked at you with pity, others with that unhealthy fascination people have for scandals. He heard his name whispered everywhere.

— You know she cheated on him?
— We saw her with a guy on Saturday night.
— Tall, dark hair… honestly, poor Ezra.

Poor Ezra.

It was almost funny.

As the day progressed, more and more people came to see him with grave expressions, as if they had a moral duty to inform him of the catastrophe.

He let them talk.

Ezra simply nodded, sitting at the back of the class, a pen in his hands. Some were waiting for a reaction. Anger. Jealousy. Maybe even for him to break up with you in front of everyone.

But he gave them nothing.