Sweet Romance15 min read
He Put My Photos on the Wall for Seven Days — He Was Waiting
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I never expected seven photos to turn my life upside down.
"Did you see the confession wall?" Kiley asked when I walked into the dorm. She was fanning herself with a textbook, dramatic as always.
"I saw," I said, trying to sound bored. "Someone keeps posting pictures of me."
"Someone?" Mariah squealed from the bunk above. "Which someone? Show us."
I pulled my phone out and scrolled. One, two, three—seven photos, each different, each of me with a lollipop in my mouth.
"Why would someone call you Lolli-sis?" Lydia said, amused.
"It could be worse," I muttered. "They could have called me Sugar Queen."
Kiley pointed. "Look at the comments. People are obsessed."
"You're a knockout," wrote one. "Lolli-sis, where did you get that look?" wrote another. The nickname stuck—Lolli-sis. I felt my cheeks heat even though I had zero interest in the attention.
"Someone put my photos there for seven days straight," I told them. "That's stalker-level."
"Or romantic-level," Mariah said, dreamy-eyed. "You should add your number to the wall and meet your secret admirer."
"That's absurd," I said.
"Then do it." Kiley pushed my phone toward me. "Post a message. Make him use a certain code when he adds you."
I sighed. I typed a polite line on the wall: Please, whoever you are, add my WeChat. Use the chat screenshot as ID. I hit send and sat back.
By noon my phone buzzed nonstop. Boys I barely knew sent friend requests and messages claiming they were the mystery poster. Most were ridiculous. Then a black anime avatar popped up with two words as the request: It's me.
I stared. Two words. No bio, no filter, just "It's me."
I accepted.
He sent screenshots—exactly the messages from the confession wall. He had proof. He introduced himself simply: "I'm Felipe."
"Felipe who?" I typed. He answered quickly, "Cunningham. Freshman. Same major. I posted the photos."
"You posted them?" I wrote. My fingers were careful, suspicious.
He sent one selfie—chin down, jawline visible, throat shadowed, a filter on the image. It didn't show his eyes. The picture had a moody, composed vibe. I had a sudden distrust: was he a jerk who thought this was a prank?
"Let's meet tonight," I typed. "But I should warn you—I'm not as pretty without makeup."
"Okay." He added: "Meet me at basketball court. I'll be under hoop one. White T-shirt, khaki shorts."
I rolled my eyes and put in a silly warning: If you if you turn out to be gross, I will block you in thirty seconds.
I left the dorm at 6:50 wearing flip-flops and nothing special—no makeup, hair in a lazy knot, comfortable. No one stared. Good. When I reached hoop one, I saw a tall figure, exactly as his screenshots suggested. He was turned away, white T-shirt, khaki shorts. He looked neat, and his posture was calm.
I cleared my throat. "Excuse me—are you—"
I froze.
He turned.
He was arresting.
"Hi." Not a whisper. Not an overdone grin. Just a face that made my chest flip.
I cursed the word "arresting" in my head and flapped. I grabbed a mask from my pocket, slapped it on, and turned. "Sorry, wrong person!" I ran. I ran until my lungs burned and my dorm door closed behind me.
"What's wrong?" Kiley asked when I burst in.
"I panicked," I said, half-breathless. "He was too—too pretty."
"Then go back and be pretty too," Mariah teased from her bed.
I went straight to the bathroom. I showered, dried, did my makeup, and changed into something I hoped could be described as "delicate but confident." I'm good with numbers; my makeup routine is fast and precise. Under two hours, I was a different person.
When I reached the basketball court again, Felipe was still there, waiting like a movie scene.
"Sorry I'm late," I lied. "Traffic signal."
He smiled like he had been expecting it. "Not late."
He gave me a small packet. "I saw a girl who looked like you," he said, "so I bought some lollipops for her."
He handed me three wrapped lollipops with neat packaging.
I choked on my saliva. He was thoughtful, and his voice sounded warmer in person. He reached out and took my hand—light, careful, like testing if a glass would break.
"Is this—" I protested foolishly. "This is too much."
He leaned in a little. "Are you warm?" he asked. Then he surprised me: "You look better than your photos."
My stomach clenched. "Thank you."
He asked me to dinner and I agreed.
We sat at a small hotpot place near campus, and my roommates burst in five minutes later like weather. They insisted on being around, taking pictures, and tagging everything. They knew exactly how to embarrass me. "Lolli-sis!" they cheered to anyone who would listen.
Felipe was calm. "I'll pay," he told them with a half-smile. He ordered everything, fed me meat slices as if he had been practicing for this. He was gentle, like someone who read too many romance novels but understood how to be real. I liked the way he laughed at things that weren't jokes.
Halfway through, I felt my eyeliner smudge. The dining room was hot and humid. I panicked and excused myself to the restroom. Kiley came with me—what a saint.
"Can you get a new liner?" I whispered.
"Of course." Ten minutes later she returned with a bag of cosmetics like a small raid. "They had a sale."
"You're lucky," I said, because they were the best roommates—so noisy, so faithful.
Back at the table, everyone chatted. Felipe turned to me. "Have you ever been in love?"
I almost choked on a meat wrapper. "No."
"What about in middle school?"
I swallowed. "No."
He tilted his head, curious. "You never had a crush?"
"Not really." I fumbled. "I have a habit."
"A lollipop habit?" he teased.
I blushed and denied it, then shrugged. "A boy once gave me a lollipop in middle school."
"You remember him?"
"Only because he saved me from being tripped in the hallway and afterward handed me a candy."
"You remember the candy more than the boy," he said softly. "Funny."
We left the restaurant with the night cooling. He walked me back to the dorm. We talked about nonsense—music, favorite cartoons, silly things. His voice was steady, and I felt safe.
"Will you have lunch with me tomorrow?" he asked.
"Sure." I agreed. I had no idea then that agreeing would change everything.
The next weekend, our department had a mixer. Felipe sat by my side and the room buzzed. People whispered. One girl on the other side of the table didn't like that Felipe sat next to me. Her name was Constance Rizzo.
"I heard you two have chemistry," she said, ice in her voice. "Are you two serious?"
Felipe smirked. "We're getting to know each other."
Constance's smile was a weapon. She had the kind of money and the kind of power that made people in our year slither. She was the sort of girl who could have the DJ play whatever she liked. She had been watching Felipe for a while—an admirer, rumor said. The rumor was that Constance liked to collect victories. I didn't want to be one of them.
At the end of the night Constance suggested we go swimming instead of karaoke. The group agreed, mostly because she offered to buy new suits for everyone. Great.
I had prepared differently this time: waterproof makeup. I was ready to be brave.
The women’s locker room was thick with chatter. Constance pushed her way in with three girls trailing. She looked at me like I owed her rent.
"Look who's here," she said, smirking. "The girl's famous on the wall. Let's see if the mask holds."
Her friends laughed like that was the punchline of a cruel joke. One of them pressed a soaked cotton pad to the side of my face. "Let’s see how much of the wall is real."
I stepped back. "Please—"
They grabbed me. My heart pounded. Two hands clamped my arms. Someone forced the pad to my face. The cooling liquid spread across my cheeks.
"Stop!" I squeaked.
Constance leaned close. "Everyone likes a trick. It's fine. Let's unmask Lolli-sis and celebrate the truth."
She dragged the pad across my eyelids and cheeks. Makeup dissolved. I felt exposed in a way words couldn't hold. My cheeks burned, not for the lack of makeup but for the nakedness of being judged.
Then, in one reckless motion, I shoved Constance. She stumbled back, slammed into a metal locker, and went down with a crash. The room fell silent.
"Ow!" Constance shouted, more shocked than hurt.
Her friends surged to help her and started to scold me in a flurry.
"She started it!" someone yelled.
"She forced me," I said, voice shaking.
Words spilled. Constance's face was red and fierce, but I saw the tiny fizzle of fear. They were girls used to having power.
"Get out," Constance hissed. "You ruined my evening."
"I didn't ruin yours," I whispered.
My phone buzzed with missed calls. Felipe had been knocked out of his routine and had dashed to the pool area, finding us before things got worse. He pushed through the crowd, eyes blazing.
"Stop it." His voice was not loud but made people look. He took my hand without asking. "We're leaving."
Constance glared. "You defended her?"
Felipe didn't answer right away. He just turned toward Constance and set his jaw. "Leave her alone."
Constance's smile broke. "Or what? You'll make me?"
"Yes." He said it like it was plain fact.
Constance laughed, brittle. "You're a freshman. What can you do?"
"I can leave," Felipe said. "But I won't let you bully her."
She scoffed and left with her entourage, muttering threats, but the locker room had shifted. People whispered and watched. Someone filmed. For once, the predator line blurred.
After that night, things changed. People who had stared at the confession wall and typed comments saw me differently. Not because of makeup, but because I had a single person stand with me in front of others. Felipe didn't shove, didn't yell. He only stood there like a shelter.
We grew closer after that. I told him about my middle school days, the lollipop, Edric Collins—the small kid who once handed me candy. He listened with a softness as if he were trying to memorize everything that had ever made me me.
"Felipe," I asked one night as we walked, "why did you put the photos up in the first place? Why the wall?"
He stopped and looked at me. "Because you said in a post once you wanted an unforgettable love. I thought the wall was a place to begin."
"That's bold," I said.
"Bold works when you have a stupid crush that won't go away," he answered. He grinned. "Also, small favors came from Edric. He helped me with the posting."
"Edric?" I asked.
"He was the one I asked to hand out a candy to a girl in middle school once," Felipe said. "I remember that kid. He always looked like he wanted to be brave."
My heart eased. The story spread—Felipe's childhood quietness, the small fatty who helped, the long wait. He told me more about how he had watched me from afar after I helped a boy in middle school; he had chosen to rewind a year and join our school so he could be close enough.
It sounded fantastical and impossible, but his earnestness made it feel true.
We were a pair the campus whispered about: the girl from the wall and the boy who posted. People took aside their phones. "Is she really pretty in real life?" they asked.
"I'm not a queen," I told Felipe one afternoon. He laughed. "You're mine," he said.
Then the bad part of drama came—the public punishment. Constance could not forgive being shoved. She wanted a spectacle.
Three weeks later, the student union organized a campus showcase in the main square. The whole school would be there. Constance planned to unveil a collaboration with a club—modeling, photos, the works. People filled the square with picnic blankets and phones. I was there because I had a class presentation, not because of the drama.
"You're coming," Constance said when she saw me. Her voice was perfumed with challenge. "You ruined my locker room. Public apologies are in order."
"I won't apologize for being defended," I said quietly.
"Then you can explain in front of everyone." She announced loudly, high enough for the crowd to lean toward us.
Within minutes a stage and microphone had materialized. An MC, delighted by gossip, waved me forward. He said, "We have an interesting heal-the-wound segment. Let's settle campus drama live!"
A hundred phones turned like fireflies.
"Why are we doing this?" I whispered to Felipe, who stood at my side. He squeezed my hand.
"Because we're not running," he said.
Constance strutted onto the stage in a white dress, a camera strapped to her wrist, her entourage around her like armor. She was beautiful in a practiced way. She smiled with teeth like knives.
"Everyone," she started, voice smooth and cold, "masks come off today. Let's get honest."
The MC chuckled and encouraged the crowd. "A reveal! Let's see what happens!"
Constance held up a large envelope. "Evidence," she declared. "This proves she is fake."
The crowd murmured. I felt my cheeks burn. Felipe's fingers tightened around mine. Edric stood a few rows back, looking small but furious.
Constance flicked open the envelope and began to read aloud the "truth"—words meant to humiliate. She spoke of my makeup, my photos, my friends. She made a mock ceremony of it, and people laughed at the spectacle like it was a game.
Halfway through, Felipe stepped forward. "Stop," he said.
Constance's smile widened. "Oh look, the hero." She waved a hand as if to push him away, and the crowd laughed again.
Felipe did not argue. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. "Would you like to see the truth?" he asked, voice steady.
Constance waved him off. "The point is clear."
"All right." He tapped his phone and cast the screen onto the big projector above the stage.
For a second, there was static. Then a string of messages appeared, not about me but between Constance and her friends. There were voice notes, video clips, and receipts. They showed Constance organizing the locker-room ambush. They showed a group chat where she laughed about degrading someone who 'dared' to be liked. They showed her planning the public ridicule, making bets, setting the time. She had recorded herself, weeks ago, practicing how to unmask me and film it. The messages were raw and cruel.
The crowd was silent at first. Then a few gasps. The projector kept playing. Felipe scrolled. "She planned this," he said, calm. "She told her friends she wanted incriminating footage to humiliate someone."
Constance's face went blank for a heartbeat. Then she laughed, loud and brittle. "You can't do this—these are private messages."
"They're still true," Felipe said. "People see the proof."
"You're lying." Her voice shook. She stepped closer to the microphone. "They took things out of context."
"Is this out of context?" Felipe asked, lifting a screenshot where she wrote, "Let's break her tonight. No mercy."
A murmur rippled through the square and grew louder. Phones were lifted to the screen. Comments flooded social feeds. People began to record her now.
Constance's expressions shifted rapidly. At first she was furious, scanning Felipe for some trick. Then she blanched as the crowd's whispers turned cold. She tried to smile and failed. Her eyes darted for allies. Some of her friends stared at their shoes and edged away. The ones who did not leave were suddenly quiet.
"Who posted this?" Constance demanded, voice high.
"Someone on the team," Felipe said. "Some of your own screenshots."
Constance's breath caught. "This is an invasion—this is illegal."
A student near the front shouted, "You set her up! You set her up!"
Now people were angry in a new way—on my behalf. Someone began to chant, "Shame! Shame!" It was not pretty. It was necessary. Phones were pointed at Constance, not me. Someone started a live stream and it spread like wildfire.
Constance's face crumpled into denial. "No—no—this isn't how it looks. I didn't mean for—"
"Meaning matters," Felipe said quietly. "You meant to hurt."
She hoisted her chin. "You exposed me. I'm the victim now."
An old woman vendor near the back cleared her throat and called out, "If you like someone, you don't make a show of taking her down." The whole crowd echoed.
Constance's supporters melted away. Her mother, who had been watching from the stands, looked mortified. Whispers turned to gossip. Texts flew. Her high-ranking club members untagged her posts. A photo of her earlier uploaded glamorous image went from praise to furious comments. People who had once admired her now scoured evidence. Sponsors who had smiled on stage with her at previous events messaged the union with complaints.
Constance's change was painful to watch. She had been starched into a posture of superiority, and now she was smaller, the edges of her composure eroding. Her voice shrank when she tried to demand forgiveness; she tried to bargain, tried to accuse others, but the square had turned on her. People recorded her begging for privacy. No one gave it back.
She tried to pace away, to make a dramatic exit. Half the crowd turned their cameras to her path. A few shouted, "Apologize!" and "Bullies out!"
A boy in front of the stage stood up and faced her. "You humiliated her in the locker room," he said. "You laugh. Why should we let you stay untroubled?" The crowd erupted with shouts of assent.
Constance's cheeks wet with unshed tears. "You're twisting the messages!" she insisted. "I didn't mean—"
Felipe stepped to the center and said, "You intended to cause harm. People plan cruelty. That planning is worse because it is deliberate."
She tried the final line—a bluff. "This is cancel culture!"
"Not canceled," someone replied. "Held accountable."
No one applauded her. People whispered; a few turned their backs. Her mother hugged her, but even the hug looked uncertain.
Constance started to cry openly, the kind of noise that used to bring people to her side. But now they stepped back. Phones were still up. People could not unsee the screenshots on the big screen. The comments online filled with students saying Constance's actions were cruel and manipulative. Some older students left their university groups and posted comments condemning behavior like hers.
The wound that night was not a physical one—no one dragged her into public humiliation with ropes—but it was social and devastating. The social circle she relied on thinned. Invitations stopped coming. The club's collaboration was paused pending investigation. Constance's posts received pity, then anger, then silence. Sponsors asked the union for statements. Her closest friend sat with distance between them at tables. That gap widened.
Through all that, Constance's reactions went through the steps I'd been told to expect. First, defiance: "You can't do this to me." Then denial: "That's not what I meant." Then bargaining: "I'll apologize if you take that down." Then panic: "Please don't ruin me." Finally, collapse: she sat down at the edge of the stage and put her head in her hands. People watched. Some took photos; some turned away. The square was heavy and serious.
Felipe had never stood on a stage like this before. He didn't gloat. He didn't relish it. He watched her shrink and said, "Hurting someone because you can is not courage."
The MC tried to close the segment. "Let's move on to the art exhibition," he said nervously.
Constance was escorted away by her mother and a campus staff member. She stumbled as she walked. Students whispered. Someone from the union asked for an official report. The campus counselors were alerted.
I felt a complicated thing—relief and sorrow mixed. I had not wished public pain for anyone. But I had wanted it to stop. When bullying is planned and secret, it continues. When it is exposed in the open, people can see the mechanism. They could choose sides. They chose differently that day.
Afterward, the square was quieter than usual for weeks. People who had not spoken to me before now nodded with small apologies. Some said, "We're sorry you had to go through that." Some simply stared with the awkwardness of people who had enjoyed a spectacle without realizing how real it was.
Constance hovered on the periphery of campus life for a while. She posted less. She was no longer invited to some events. The team she led had to report and reorganize. Her friends drifted. People who had once enjoyed her sharp edges felt awkward around them. The school put a code of conduct in place and asked for conflict resolution sessions.
It wasn't an execution of cruelty; it was a public unmasking and social consequence. She felt the fall. People saw the fall. That was punishment enough for many.
Through it all, Felipe kept his hand in mine. "Are you okay?" he asked late that night, as we sat on the dorm roof watching the city lights.
"I am," I said. "I think so." The word felt hollow and real at the same time. "I just didn't want you to be hurt."
"You never will be," he said simply. "Not if I can help it."
He told me then the rest of the story—how he had orchestrated the confession wall posts because he had wanted people to look at my face the way he had all those years ago. He told me about Edric Collins, who had been small and brave, who had handed me a lollipop once and told me to smile when the world felt heavy. Felipe had watched me then, and he had never shaken off the image.
"You tricked a little kid into being your messenger?" I asked, half laughing through tears.
"He wanted to help," Felipe said. "Edric isn't a messenger. He is a friend."
"Did you really re-enroll to the same school?" I asked.
"For a year," he said. "I wanted a chance."
The confession, small and strange, felt like something out of a fairy tale. He had been brave in a different way than Constance. He had followed through with persistence, not cruelty. I liked that.
Time softened the sharp edges. Constance returned to classes, quieter, the spotlight cooled. She apologized in a private meeting. There were consequences from the union. She did not regain the easy power she had before. She found other ways to be. I forgave her in time because I did not want to carry anger forever. Forgiveness is not forgetting; it is choosing how to live.
Felipe and I kept building small things: lunch dates, study sessions, morning coffees. He kept showing the little touches that mattered. He was thoughtful with no fanfare. He liked my lollipops and said it reminded him of the story he loved. He told me about his plan once and how he had watched me every day and wanted me to be seen.
One afternoon he asked, "Do you want to know something else?"
"Yes," I said.
"Edric never knew he was the messenger until years later," Felipe said with a grin. "I told him to hand you a candy. He thought he was just helping. When I met you a second time, I realized I couldn't wait any longer."
I laughed. "So your plan depended on a kid and a confession wall and a lot of luck."
"And you," he finished, with a look that made my stomach turn deliciously.
We had small fights, like people do—about time, about jealousy, about messed-up schedules. He brought me pens because I liked them. I let him kiss me on roof corners and break my heart gently with words of vulnerability.
One night, months after the wall, Felipe leaned in and whispered, "Do you know why I made the wall posts every day for seven days?"
"No." I shook my head.
"Because I wanted the whole school to see something I had kept to myself: that someone ordinary, someone called Lolli-sis by strangers, could mean so much to a quiet boy."
"You're sappy," I said, but my voice trembled.
He smiled and held up a lollipop. "Will you still be my Lolli-sis?"
I reached out and took it. "Only if you stop calling me that in public."
"Deal."
We laughed.
The confession wall had done more than expose a prank. It had forced people to choose. It had shown the power of kindness and the price of cruelty. It had given me a hand to hold in the dark and a boy who would wait.
When I look at my reflection now, sometimes I carry a lollipop in my pocket. When I walk by the basketball court, I see a shadow where he once stood waiting. I know now that beauty isn't only in what people see. It's in who chooses to stand with you when everyone else looks away.
And sometimes, late at night, when the world is quiet and the confession wall's glow is just a memory, I press my forehead to Felipe's and whisper, "Thank you for the lollipops."
He smiles and answers in a voice I know too well, "I always liked the taste, but I always liked you more."
The End
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