Chapter 2: Refusing to Be a Hero

"Let me go! Let me go right now!"

A high-pitched, panicked voice sliced through the noise of late afternoon traffic. Somewhere nearby, a scuffle echoed off brick walls.

"If you don’t let me go, I’ll scream for help!"

Her desperation was raw, yanking me toward the alley like a magnet. I froze, caught between instinct and fear.

The world seemed to shrink. In the shadows, a flash of blond hair—some punk in ripped jeans, gripping a girl’s arm too tight.

Her backpack was on the ground, books scattered across dirty concrete. He leered, totally shameless. My gut twisted—déjà vu, but with the memory even sharper now.

The alley reeked of old beer and cigarettes. The sunset painted everything in a nasty orange glow.

I looked down at my uniform, at the school crest on my jacket, and then back at the scene. I recognized it all. This was the rerun I could never turn off.

For a moment, I was frozen, biting my lip so hard it almost bled.

One word hit me—reborn. It didn’t feel real, but there I was, stuck in the moment that would change everything.

I stood there, heart pounding so hard it hurt. There was no denying it—I was back. Destiny’s crossroads.

Memories poured over me like ice water. Every headline, every cruel DM, every time I’d cursed myself for trying to help.

In my last life, I’d grabbed a broken broom handle and rushed to help Natalie Cooper. I swung the stick and screamed at the guy to back off.

He stumbled away, swearing revenge. Natalie collapsed against the wall, shaking so hard I thought she’d faint.

She sobbed, mascara running, whispering, "I’m dirty, I’m dirty," as if saying it could make it less real.

I took off my jacket, trying to comfort her. "You didn’t do anything wrong. None of this is your fault."

I wanted her to believe it. I wanted to believe it myself.

I encouraged her to be brave and fight back. I tried to sound certain, even though my own voice shook.

Her hands trembled as she called the police. I sat beside her, not daring to leave.

We gave statements at the police station, the air thick with burnt coffee and anxiety. I tried to sound proud when I told my mom, but my voice cracked. She hugged me tight, said she was proud, and called her sister in Minnesota to brag.

But I never expected that one act would drag my family into the abyss.

That night, I lay awake, staring at the glow-in-the-dark stars on my ceiling, totally unaware of the storm coming.

The next morning, my phone buzzed nonstop. My stomach dropped. Something was off.

I went to class, and Natalie showed up with the police, accusing me in front of everyone.

She wouldn’t meet my eyes. Her story was rehearsed, painting me as the villain and herself as the tragic heroine.

"He’s not a witness—he’s the one who molested me!"

The accusation sucked the air from the room. I couldn’t even speak.

My thoughts scattered like leaves in a storm.

The police handcuffed me. Phones filmed every second. Someone in the crowd cried. My best friend looked away.

I finally snapped, shouting, "I’m innocent! Why are you doing this to me? I saved you!"

The words bounced uselessly off the walls. Natalie only cried harder, "No girl would joke about her own reputation."

Everyone believed her.

No one questioned the script. My name became a curse, every glance a sentence.

Within hours, the story exploded online—blurry photos, wild rumors, hashtags multiplying. Strangers DM’d me, daring me to kill myself. Every notification was a fresh punch.

The mob was relentless. They called my mom a failure, a whore, said I was proof of her bad parenting. She deleted her Facebook, but the hate just got worse.

The principal expelled me "for the good of the community."

My college dreams vanished in a single click. My mom held my hand, promising we’d fight together. She was the only light left.

She broke into the school, wrote a letter in her own blood, and livestreamed her suicide from the roof. Her final moments went viral. The bloodied note was everywhere.

For a while, I was the face of a broken system. Hashtags trended, but none of it could bring her back.

Public opinion shifted. Reporters interviewed classmates, true crime sleuths analyzed every video. People started to see the cracks in Natalie’s story.

The police reinvestigated and finally let me go for lack of evidence. But what did it matter? My world was still in ruins. Even the Dollar Tree cashier looked at me like I was a monster.

Rumors spread that my family had bribed someone. I didn’t bother defending myself. I spent my days dodging old friends, eating ramen in the dark, scrolling through my mom’s old texts. I scavenged for bottles, traded them for change. The city felt emptier every week.

Until one day, I ran into Natalie at the mall. She looked like an influencer—designer bag, curled hair, the works. My knees went weak as I rushed at her, desperate for answers.

She recoiled, pinching her nose in disgust. I blocked her path, begging for the truth.

She snapped, "Do you know who molested me? He’s the son of the richest man in Maple Heights! I can’t afford to cross him!"

My hands shook. "What about me? Did I deserve to lose everything?"

She rolled her eyes, "I still want to get into a good college. I can’t get in trouble. Besides, you chose to save me. I never asked you to. Who told you to meddle?"

Her sneer was ice cold. A crowd gathered. The jerk swaggered over, threw his arm around her, and kissed her hard.

He wore a North Face jacket, hair slicked back, grinning at me. "So what if you get into college? You’ll just end up working overtime at my dad’s firm. Wouldn’t it be easier to just let someone take care of you?"

She giggled, cheeks flushed, happier than I’d ever seen her. The truth hit me like a punch. My vision spun. I collapsed, head slamming into the tile.

When I came to, I was back at the start. The world had reset again. The smells, the sounds, the drama—everything the same.

I glanced at the two in the alley, then forced myself to walk away. Her cries for help echoed behind me, growing fainter with every step.

But what did that have to do with me? I kept repeating it like a prayer. I’d learned the hard way: not every battle is worth fighting.