Sweet Romance12 min read
I Hung Myself on the Confession Wall (And the President Took the Joke Seriously)
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I paid someone to hang me on the confession wall. I wrote the post myself.
"I can't believe you did that," Brooklyn said, laughing until she cried.
"It sounded like a plan at midnight," I said. "And it cost me a milk tea."
"You didn't pay Gideon, did you?" Mae asked.
"No, of course not." I forced a smile. "I hired someone from the square."
I had had enough of Colton's pitying looks. I had had enough of the roommates' sympathetic faces. I was sick of him—Colton Voigt—walking around the dorm like he owned my childhood, like his every embarrassed apology was a rope I couldn't cut.
"You're not sick, Kali," Colton had told me before. "You're just...confused."
"Confused," I echoed. "Right. Confused about what? Loving you?"
"You said it as a joke," he shrugged. "I thought it was a joke."
We were childhood friends. Our parents were friends. Everyone assumed we'd end up together because we grew up within shouting distance of one another. But we had always been too familiar to be romantic. We teased, we pranked, we rolled our eyes at each other. We were allergic to the idea of being 'betrothed'. We wound around each other's lives like loose strings.
"I don't understand when it started," I told Brooklyn one night. "Maybe during high school. Maybe when he used to
"—carry my books?—" Brooklyn finished, nudging me.
"Maybe. Or when he handed me half of his snack."
"That's sweet," Mae said.
"That's not the point," I said. "I didn't notice until I noticed. And then I freaked out."
When I finally admitted it—quietly to myself at first—Colton insisted I go to the doctor.
"He said I was 'red-faced' and 'palpitating,'" I told Brooklyn.
"Because you were in love, Kali," Brooklyn said with a grin.
"I thought I had a fever," I replied.
"You drank cooling tea for a month, remember?" Mae laughed.
"Yes. I drank cooling tea and watched him like a fool."
At university, we were still ourselves. He liked to mess with my head. He'd barge into my room and muss my hair. He'd lean against the doorway and act like he didn't know how to reach the top shelf. People thought we were dating because of small cues: a head pat, a shared hoodie. He let them think that; he used me as a shield so other girls wouldn't swarm him.
"Help me win her heart," he said one afternoon, smiling crookedly.
"Help you?" I repeated, stunned. "Help you—win Lucia Brooks? Are you insane?"
"She likes the mysterious type," Colton said.
"You told me to distract her with me as a fake girlfriend," I said.
"Exactly," he said, grinning.
And that was how I found my face on the confession wall, in my own handwriting, under someone else's name. I told people that it was a joke. I told myself it was a joke. I did not want to be a public pity case.
"Why are you upset?" Colton asked later, so casual it made my blood burn.
"Because you are using me," I said, finally.
"Using you?" He blinked. "I thought we were friends."
"Friends don't string each other along."
The truth is, Colton didn't have to try hard to win Lucia. She was high and cold—beautiful in a way that made people think of sculpture. But she had a soft inside, and when Colton discovered she was actually fond of saccharine things, he turned on that charm. I told Colton I'd help, on the condition he cover my club duty for three months. He agreed. I handed him Lucia's WeChat like a grenade.
"We're meeting at the plant lab on Wednesday," I told him.
"Perfect," he said. "I'll sit right there. Save a seat for you."
I didn't need to be there. But curiosity, like a bad flavor, dragged me. When I entered the lecture hall, there he was—grinning, three seats across with a gap in the middle for me. He left the center seat conspicuously open. He wanted me to be the bridge. He wanted to use my presence as ammunition.
"Why are you doing this?" I whispered, once we were seated.
"For old times' sake," he muttered.
"Old times' sake," I repeated, voice thin.
Professor Yang called on me in the lecture, of all moments. I panicked, rifled through notes, and froze. Colton, with that impossibly calm ease he always had, slid over and pointed at the page. "Answer," he mouthed, and I read aloud. The class laughed as if I'd just given a confession; Colton laughed, too. I stomped his foot under the desk. He looked shocked and delighted at the same time.
Later, I ate spicy rice, so hot I cried, and laughed at the fact that Colton and Lucia were taking tiny steps toward each other. My friends fussed over me.
"Are you okay?" Lucia asked, gently.
"I'm fine," I lied. "I'm fine."
She accepted Colton's messages with one-word replies she had always used with strangers: "Oh." "Yes." "Um." Colton complained and laughed to me, and I complained and laughed back. We were actors on the same stage, both pretending.
"I don't understand why you default to me as a decoy," I told him once, angry.
"I'm used to you," he said. "You're steady."
"You know, you're cowardly," Lucia told him later on.
"Why?" he asked cheerfully.
"Because you use people as props," she said coldly.
"Props?" he grinned. "No, tools."
When Lucia and Colton started getting close in public—walking arm in arm—the dorm buzzed. Photos were posted. Comments popped: "Oh my god, they're official." I watched everyone's attention turn to them, and I felt hollow. I started to avoid dining halls, libraries, parks. I bought a wig, big sunglasses, long dresses. I tried being unrecognizable.
"You look like a spy," Brooklyn whispered when she saw my disguise.
"I almost fooled myself," I said.
Colton still found me. He would chase me, pull off my sunglasses, and laugh. He said I was playing cosplay. I pushed him away hard enough that he staggered.
"Why are you avoiding me?" he asked, suddenly soft.
"Because I'm not your insurance policy," I snapped.
"What insurance policy?" he laughed.
"For your love life."
I thought he might regret his use of me. He did not.
Then a strange thing happened. Student council president Gideon Luo showed up in my life like a stern wind. He was composed, unreadable, the kind of person who could sit in a room and make it fall into silence. He was handsome the way a statue is handsome: perfect angles and calm features. People revered him. He scared me more than anyone else did.
"I didn't expect to see you here," he said once, standing just inside a lecture hall.
"Me?" I blinked.
"Yes." He smiled the smallest of smiles. "Come, please."
He sat beside me. I fumbled and called him "president" like it was a talisman. He was not cruel. He looked at my notebook, then at me, as if he'd read every line of my life and paused on the messy parts.
"I like your draft," Gideon said one day. "You have a way with small moments."
"I wrote something silly," I stammered.
"Keep it," he said. "Refine it."
I sent the small skit I and the girls had made for the art festival to the council by mistake, and then the world—my world—tilted. Gideon, in his quiet way, read it and smiled. "Very promising," he told me through a message and then, "Come to the student council. Let's adjust the details."
I sat in his office and tried not to hyperventilate. He was born to command. He suggested lines, blocked scenes with the kind of exactness that made my hair rise. He never mocked. He never teased. He simply guided us.
"You're funny," he observed once.
"Don't laugh," I said.
"I'm not laughing," Gideon replied, neutral as stone.
"You're smiling!" I said.
"Not at you." He raised an eyebrow.
Gideon included me in his planning. He asked me for small favors. One day, out of nerves or mischief, I wrote a confession post and paid someone to paste it on the wall. I thought I'd hide my shame behind the absurdity of it, but the person who showed up to post it was not a stranger. It was Gideon—quiet, awkward, holding a scrap of paper with my handwriting.
"You posted it?" I whispered. "You did this?"
"I promised to help," he said. "You said you wanted someone else to do it. I thought I'd be anonymous."
I wanted to die. I wanted to laugh. I wanted to punch something. Gideon had turned my prank into a small comet by pretending to be the prankster. "You owe me a milk tea," I said, and he said, "I'll buy it."
His presence made me tremble in a way Colton never had. I wasn't sure whether it was comfort or fear. I started to get small gifts: a pair of glasses because I'd scratched his old ones by accident, a message asking for my drafts, late-night coffee left at my door.
"You're enjoying the attention," Colton said one night, after a loud argument where he accused me of dramatics.
"I'm not," I insisted. "But Gideon is kind, in a quiet way. He's not like you."
"Of course he's not like me," Colton sneered. "He's perfect for public praise."
The art festival came. Our small skit was chosen, and I sat beside Gideon, feeling like a fraud and a queen at the same time. On stage, Colton and Lucia performed an incredible duo dance. They were electric. The crowd roared. We placed eighth in the competition. They celebrated like kings.
"Come join us," Colton said at the food stall later, pulling me into the circle. "You belong to the team, remember?"
"I belong to myself," I replied, cool.
"Is that what you want?" he asked quietly.
"Yes," I said.
Gideon leaned close and whispered, "Do you want me to walk you back?"
"No," I said, and then, "Yes," because my heart said yes before my mouth could decide.
The night twisted in a blur. I drank something I thought was water and found it was stronger. Colton, thinking I was being pushed into a corner by Gideon, shoved Gideon aside. I pushed back.
"Leave me alone," I told Colton. "Don't touch me."
"I'm trying to help," he said, voice rough.
"You're not helping. You're the problem."
The story of my drunken mess spread, like gossip in a rain puddle. The next morning I woke to messages, to jokes, to a confession on the wall. Then somebody—someone I admired—took the blame and turned a joke into a gesture. Gideon had posted the confession in my name. He called it protection, a way to make a thing public so no one could twist it privately.
"That's terrible," Brook said.
"It was the best and worst thing in my life," I said.
A turning point came not because someone was kind, but because someone had to be taught a lesson. Colton's casual cruelty had runs deeper than teasing. He'd used me as a prop, lied to Lucia when it served him, and acted helpless when things didn't work his way. I had endured his half-smile and excuses for too long.
We staged the punishment at the end-of-semester awards in the student center—the same hall where Gideon often held council meetings. Dozens of students gathered to celebrate winners. Lights hummed. People cheered. I asked for the microphone.
"Give her the mic," Gideon murmured beside me.
"Now?" I whispered.
"Now," he said. He handed me a slip of paper. "Say what you need to say."
I breathed in and stepped up. The room quieted because Gideon's presence dimmed other noises. I felt small under so many eyes and then enormous, because I was finally saying it.
"Hi," I began. "My name is Kali Peters."
"Hi," Brooklyn and Mae echoed from the crowd.
"I have a confession," I said. "I hired someone to hang a post about me on the confession wall. I wrote it. I paid for it with a milk tea. I wanted to hide my feelings behind a prank so I wouldn't have to be brave enough to say them out loud."
A ripple of laughter, then quiet. I looked straight at Colton. He was in the front row, smiling in a way I had once found charming and now found shallow.
"I put up with being your joke, Colton," I said. "I helped you pursue Lucia. I let you lean on me. I let you use me as decoy so you could test another girl's patience. I let you treat me as an accessory."
He blinked. "Kali—"
"No," I said. "Listen. This is public. This has witnesses. You used me, Colton. You pretended to be helpless so people would help you. You made yourself a victim to dodge responsibility. You've treated honesty like a prank."
He stood up. "That's not fair," he said, louder than before.
"Fair?" I smiled sadly. "Let's be fair."
I reached into my bag and pulled out our chat logs—screenshots I'd taken over the last months. I held up my phone. "Here," I said. "These are your messages when you were bored. You call me pet names when you want comfort. You call me ridiculous when the girl you like shows up."
Colton's face changed. He tried to laugh it off. He asked if I was making a scene. Students started shifting, whispering. Someone took out a phone and started recording.
"Colton, remember when you told Lucia she'd be your future?" I read another line aloud. "Remember when you told my mother you'd take care of me?" I let the room digest it. "You told my father you two would be perfect. You told everyone a story of us that made me small and tidy."
"You're lying," he snapped.
"Am I?" I asked quietly. "Do you want to hear from the people you've used?"
Brooklyn stood up. "He asked me to hide him in my dorm one night so Lucia wouldn't see him with another girl," she said. Mae chimed in with another small confession. Lucia, cold-faced but steady, added, "He told me sweet things in private and then asked if I'd keep him secret."
"You're a liar," Colton tried again.
"You're an actor," I said. "You learned how to perform." I let the silence settle heavy on him. "You think it's charming. You think it's funny to hurt people and then ask for mercy. It's not funny."
He flushed. "That's not how it was," he whispered.
"Maybe not to you," I said. "But you deserve to have your behavior seen clearly."
People around us were no longer idle. Someone muttered, "He always did look slippery." Another said, "I knew he was sketchy." The room felt like a stage and he had missed his mark.
Colton's mask cracked. He went through the stages in clear view: a nervy laugh, a sharp denial, anger that flickered into confusion, and then the small, naked panic of someone losing applause. He tried to swing it back—apologize, explain, blame a joke—but each excuse sounded thinner under the bright lights.
"Colton," I said, "I am done being your safety net."
"You're making this worse," he said, pleading.
"Everyone's seen you," I continued. "You can apologize. You can try to fix it. But I'm not taking back what I said. It's public now. You'll have to be public about it."
People reacted. Someone started clapping slowly. Not the mean kind, but the 'finally' kind. A few older students shook their heads in disapproval. Gideon, who had been quiet the whole time, stood and said, "Professors will be CC'd on this complaint if necessary."
"Don't," Colton begged.
"You did this to yourself," Gideon said evenly. "You used someone you thought would always be there."
Colton's jaw moved; he looked around and realized he had lost his audience. Phones were out. Faces that once smiled with him now looked at him with distance. For the first time in a long time, he appeared small.
He tried to laugh again, but his smile faltered. "Kali," he said, voice thinner. "Please. I didn't...I didn't know it would go this far."
"Then learn," I said. "Learn how to be honest. Learn how to take a no. Learn to stop making people props in your life."
He slumped into his chair, and the crowd dispersed with a soft, satisfied murmur. Some students patted me on the back. A few others nodded at Colton with a kind of quiet pity. He had been unmasked in public: his charm had been taken apart piece by piece and displayed for everyone.
Afterward, Colton's world shrank. He lost invites, lost casual friendships. People who once smiled his way now kept polite distance. He tried to reach out to many—Lucia, professors, even me. Each conversation ended with a cooler tone than before. He asked for forgiveness and then was met with ordinary life: people who had to sort out where their trust had gone. He sat alone sometimes on the quad and looked small.
That public punishment was not about revenge. It was about naming what had been happening and making sure it couldn't continue the same way. It was about the audience seeing that actions have consequences.
After that, life moved like a river changing course. Gideon stayed near—silent, helpful, a steady presence. I stopped pretending I didn't like the way he would look at me when I spoke. We worked together on the club, on the skit, on silly practice runs that became excuses to be near each other. He bought me a pair of glasses when I couldn't afford the nice one in the shop. I gave him a ridiculous badge I'd made of felt.
"You were the one who posted the confession," I told him once, in the quiet after a rehearsal.
"I thought it would shield you," Gideon said.
"It did the opposite," I said, smiling.
"It made things honest," he said. "Isn't that worse and better at the same time?"
We learned each other's small habits. He'd tuck a stray hair behind my ear and then pretend it wasn't him. He would slide a note under my door with corrections or jokes. He was not flashy. He did not sweep me off my feet with grand gestures. He simply stood where a person could stand: steady, reliable, surprisingly brave in his own way.
"Will you go abroad?" I asked him once.
"I might," he said.
"But—"
"I can't leave yet," he said. "Not now."
We tried things slowly. He called me "Kali" like it was a new song. I called him "Gideon" with a softened tone. We bickered gently. We argued about the student council's budget and about who took the last slice of pizza.
Sometimes I thought back to the confession wall—the night I hired someone and the irony of Gideon posting it himself. "You made a bold move," he told me.
"I made a dumb move," I said.
"You made it honest," he repeated.
My mother loved the idea of a handsome, accomplished boyfriend. When I showed Gideon's photo to her, she fussed and stocked the pantry as if preparing a celebration. He came to meet my parents for tea once when summer lulled the campus. He sat politely, said little, and answered everything with a serious kindness. He did not charm my mother with silly lines. He charmed her with respect.
"He's different," she said to me later, with an approving nod.
"He's real," I corrected her.
Gideon did not have to win me with fireworks. He won me with small certainties: coffee left when he thought I'd be late, accuracy when he promised to do something, and the rare moment when he looked at me as if I were a single clear thing in his complex life.
We weren't a sudden romance. We built ourselves like a fragile model kit, careful and patient, shaving the rough edges. I learned to answer him honestly. He learned to stop folding his feelings in like paper cranes.
One evening, as summer moved toward its end, we sat in the courtyard and shared a thermos of tea. "Do you regret the confession?" I asked.
"No," he said. "It made things clear."
"Even the way it turned out?"
"Yes." He smiled faintly. "You were brave in the strangest way."
I reached for his hand. It was the simplest thing. He did not hesitate. He squeezed back.
We walked back to the dorm in the clean, measured steps of two people who had been seen, who had been hurt, who had spoken publicly, who had learned what honesty demanded. The confession wall had been a joke, a trap, a truth-teller. It had hung me in public, but it also set me free.
The End
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