Face-Slapping11 min read
I’m Not the White Lotus You Think I Am
ButterPicks15 views
I never wanted drama. I wanted quiet classes, bad takeout at midnight, and to be left alone to worry about exams. But people have a way of turning gentle things into storms.
"Felicity, you look great tonight," Fernando said the day he finally brought me to meet his friends.
"Thanks," I said, trying to make my voice small and even.
"He actually brought his girlfriend out?" someone shouted from inside the car.
"Fernando, look at your wife—are you showing off?" a high voice laughed.
Inside, a tall girl came right up to me and peered like I was an exhibit.
"Who made you look like this? Fake lashes?" she said loudly.
I felt my smile drop. My skin prickled. The girl winked at the group.
"Don't be mad, I just get close to people, I'm blunt," she added.
"Who is she?" Fernando's friend teased.
"She's Felicity," he mumbled, like I had a label he hadn't bothered to explain.
"Call me Harmony," the tall girl said when he nudged her. "Call me Harmony Jaeger. We go way back."
"Call me what you want," Fernando said to me, as if names were footnotes.
They made jokes. They made me a sideshow.
"Felicity, are you shy?" Harmony asked, slapping her own head and punching Fernando jokingly.
"Don't worry," she said to the group with a grin. "Maybe she thinks I'm a guy. I hang out with the boys a lot."
"She likes us," one of them said. "She's been chasing Fernando everywhere."
I swallowed. My cheeks went warm. I wrapped my hand around the glass in my lap.
When I tried to join in later, to show them I could be part of it, Harmony called me precious names and pushed me into being "the gentle one"—the one who would never be wild, never be loud. Then she went and leaned on Fernando like she belonged in his world.
"You're not even playing?" she teased when we reached the rides.
"I can go on the roller coaster," I said.
"Aw, let her rest," Harmony said loudly. "Let the pretty one sit out."
I sat in the corner. I watched them. My hand found Fernando's, and he put an arm around me to make the room stop spinning.
"You don't have to try so hard to fit in," I told myself later. "This will pass."
It didn't.
"You left your laptop on my table," I said to Fernando the next morning.
"Sorry, babe, small thing. I'll fix it tonight," he texted.
"Okay," I replied. He never fixed it. Instead he ran off to check on Harmony, who had stomach cramps, he said. He sent kisses with "Love you, movie tomorrow."
I waited. I kept checking the door.
A boy named Boyd—light-faced, kid-like—showed up to help me with the laptop.
"Felicity, I'm Boyd. Fernando asked me to help," he said as he worked.
"Thanks," I said.
"You owe me for calling you 'sister' earlier," Boyd teased, and something about his voice was steady, soft, like an ally.
That afternoon at the theater the world tilted.
"Who are you?" Fernando asked abruptly when I hugged a long-time friend who came to save me.
"This is Elliott," I said. "He’s my childhood friend."
"Is he—?" Fernando's face went cold. "What does he mean to you?"
"Elliott is a friend," I said, steady. "That's it."
Elliott stood up, put a hand on my back in a careful, respectful way. "Pleasure to meet you," he said. "Felicity is my friend."
"You can't be bringing men here," Fernando hissed later over text. "You made me jealous."
"Jealous of what?" I wrote back. "The friend who saved me from being stuck with you tonight?"
"Don't be dramatic," he said.
When Elliott wrapped an arm around me so I wouldn't be picked on, when I leaned against him to buy tickets and he bought a huge bucket of popcorn because I used to binge it as a kid, the group started whispering. Fernando's face went dark.
"Elliott, you should leave us a little space," Fernando muttered.
"Space is fine," Elliott said slowly, "but if you think I'm going to watch someone be treated badly, you're wrong."
"Are you throwing shade?" someone laughed.
Later, in a bar where everyone had drunk too much, a drunken, reckless moment sealed things. Harmony and Fernando were close—too close. People cheered and shoved them together; they let it happen. I recorded the kiss because my hands moved before my heart did.
"Don't," Boyd whispered when I raised my phone.
"Let me," I said quietly. "I need to remember."
The next morning, I put all the footage together. I sent it where it would hurt—the school's forum, to friends of his, and to anyone who would watch and see the truth. The video spread like wildfire.
"Why would you post that?" Fernando demanded when he finally called.
"You told me to make it plain," I said, voice scraping. "You and Harmony are not just friends."
"It's not what you think," he said.
"Wasn't it your hand on her waist in the video?" I asked. "Wasn't it you two kissing in the club?"
Silence.
I blocked their numbers, posted things that stung, and let people talk. The comments were a strange balm.
"Glad she did it," some wrote.
"She kept her dignity," others said.
"Who is the handsome guy who stepped in?" a dozen people asked about Elliott.
"Who is that protective kid?" others asked about Boyd.
The payoff wasn't immediate satisfaction. The payoff was seeing them lose the small kingdom they'd built among our classmates.
But justice didn't feel like a simple switch. The real moment came later, when I chose a place and climbed a stage.
"A campus assembly? For what?" someone asked.
"For the truth," I said.
The hall was packed. People I knew. People I didn't. Cameras. Phones. Faces lit from screens. I heard a hundred small breaths and then silence when I took the mic.
"Can I speak?" I asked.
"Yes," murmured someone.
"You filmed us," Fernando said, from somewhere near the front, voice tight. "You can't go on like this."
"You should have thought of that before you betrayed things," I said.
I pressed play.
"That was filmed in a private club," Harmony snapped mid-playback, trying to reach my phone.
"Stop trying to stop it," I said into the mic. "It's already out."
The playback showed their closeness, their kisses, the laughing crowd. People around them saw. Eyes widened. A low murmur swelled.
"I can explain," Fernando said when the clip ended, stepping forward, face red. "It... it was a joke. We were drunk. She means nothing."
"Really?" I asked. "You mean nothing to me, then why were you in her lap that night? Why did you hold her like a secret? Why did you ignore me when I needed you?"
Someone shouted. "Tell him!"
Harmony's smile cracked. She held up her hands like a boxer exhausted. "You're making a scene."
"You're making a life," I said. "And I won't watch it be built on lies."
The crowd sharpened. Phones lifted. People made space.
"You think you're so honest?" Harmony retorted. "You posted that video to shame us."
"I posted a truth," I said. "This is not about shame—this is about honesty."
Then the chorus of witnesses did something I'd only pictured in a dream.
One by one, people who had been charmed by Fernando's laugh or Harmony's loud energy told small stories that did not flatter them. A teammate who'd joked about how they were practically married said he felt used. A girl who'd confided about being ignored when she needed help said she had seen them acting like nothing was wrong when she cried.
"Why didn't you tell us it was a thing?" someone demanded.
"They made jokes in my face for months!" another shouted.
"It was cruel," a voice said quietly, and it carried.
Fernando's expression shifted: surprise, then denial, then anger, then fear. His friends who had teased me stood small and shuffled. The atmosphere turned. The group around him drifted away. A friend who had lifted him up that night avoided his gaze.
"You're lying," Fernando said, voice higher. "You're lying. You set this up."
"My phone has the timestamp," I said. "Your messages too. You told me you were with me that night."
"That night you said you were with her," Harmony cried defensively. "You provoked them. You always play the wrong card."
"How long did you think you'd get away with calling it 'brothers'?" I asked.
People in the assembly who had once laughed at the idea of a "brother pact" now frowned. Phones recorded. Someone whispered that the clip had already made the rounds. Laughter died and turned to low, burning heat.
Harmony's face went through stages. She tried to repair it the way she always had—jokes, bravado.
"She can't take a joke," she barked. "Look at her dramatic face."
Then she clutched at Fernando, eyes wide. "We were just having fun. Do you not understand what fun is?"
"Fun," I echoed. "When you make another person the joke, it's not fun."
He stepped back. His friends were looking at the floor. A girl whom Harmony had once pushed aside when they dated a boy in the group now walked in front of Harmony and said plainly, "We didn't like that you treated her like a sideshow."
Harmony's jaw trembled. She grabbed for something—an insult, an accusation—then lost it. Her voice, usually loud and deflecting, became thin.
"You're all pitting yourselves against us," Fernando said, trying to sound steady. "This is harassment."
A dozen phones hovered, recording him. A formerly friendly face shook his head and turned away.
"Fernando," one of his old friends said slowly. "You kissed a girl in public when you were with your girlfriend. You didn't think about what that did to her. You didn't think to tell us until the video came out."
"It's—" He stammered, looking for allies. Silence answered.
The friend who had once egged him on cleared his throat. "I don't want to be on your side if you're going to hurt someone," he said. "We should have said something."
People in the hall started murmuring. Sympathy shifted. No one applauded Fernando. No one defended Harmony. Harmony's face crumpled like fragile paper. For the first time I saw her as an exposed human—panic, shame, the animal instinct to survive.
"Please," Harmony said, voice breaking. "I didn't mean—"
"You didn't mean to be honest?" I asked. "You didn't mean to be gentle? You didn't mean to be cruel? Please."
I watched as the social net they'd relied on unstitched. People who had wanted to be around them now kept a cautious distance. A girl who had once included Harmony in a shopping group unfollowed her in front of us. Someone whispered that Harmony had been rude to others, and a dozen nodded, the stories like dominos falling.
Fernando's posture slackened. "Why would you do this here?" he asked, the defiance drained.
"Because this has always been public," I said. "You made it public with your actions."
Then something small and terrible happened. A boy who had watched them laugh and flirt when I was left out stepped forward and gripped Fernando's arm. "You hurt her," he said, quiet but wide. "I watched. I let it slide. I'm sorry."
The crowd shifted from whispers to condemnation. A few people clapped—soft, slow, like rain starting. Others took photos. Someone yelled, "Shame!" in a tone that wasn't cruel but instructive. They wanted the behavior to stop. They wanted the lesson to stick.
Fernando looked like a man who had lost the script. Harmony had no jokes left. For a moment they both were very small, two people without a place to stand.
I left the stage and walked through a sea of faces. Some people stared with triumph, some with pity. A few looked embarrassed for having let it go on. Boyd met my eyes in the crowd and gave a little, fierce nod. Elliott stood at the edge, silent and steady.
The punishment had been public, yes. It had been more than my private vengeance. It was a public correction: their pretense removed, their excuses revealed, their popularity peeled away. People who'd defended them stopped. Those who had been silent spoke up. That was a kind of justice: not humiliation for its own sake, but exposure of carelessness and cruelty, followed by the community choosing not to honor that cruelty.
After the assembly, Harmony's phone was a storm—messages begging for explanation, friends unfriending, teammates whispering. Fernando texted me from a number I had blocked.
"Felicity, please," he wrote. "I'm sorry. Don't make me out to be a monster."
"I told you the truth," I typed back. "You made your choices. Own them."
He tried to rally allies, but invitations dwindled. The same people who'd chanted his name at parties now avoided sitting with him. Harmony found herself alone at practice, her usual circle gone. The most painful moments for both came not from my post or my speech, but from the way ordinary people—classmates, colleagues in projects, teammates—chose quieter hearts. They stopped inviting them to group dinners, stopped expecting their jokes to land. It was a slow, public erosion, and it stung more than a single slap.
Meanwhile, Elliot and Boyd and a handful of new friends stayed. Boyd kept joking about me as "sister" but guarded. "You did the right thing," he said, not in praise but in solidarity.
"You really stood on that stage," he added. "I'll never forget the way they went quiet."
"It wasn't enough sometimes," I admitted. "But it felt necessary."
Time softens loud things. They apologized online, clumsy and half-hearted. Fernando tried to get back into the old groups, but the invitations didn't come. Harmony's loudness faded into a careful, fragile quieter version of herself. People watched from a distance.
Then there was Elliott—quiet, steady, who did not make a show of being my savior. He simply made space.
"Are you okay?" he asked one evening when we were walking back from a late study session.
"I don't know," I whispered.
"You don't have to know tonight," he said, squeezing my hand. "You did what you had to."
Days after the assembly, in a more private scene, he said what no one else had said aloud.
"Felicity," he said one night, voice low, "I've known you a long time. I wanted to tell you something."
"What?" I asked, breath small.
"I like you," he said. "I've liked you for years."
He kissed me then—soft, careful, like someone learning the map of a place he already loved. It was not the dramatic public moment of a movie. It was small, true, and real.
"Why now?" I asked between breaths.
"Because you needed someone who would be there," he said. "And because I couldn't pretend I didn't want you."
"I don't deserve the hero," I joked weakly.
"You deserve someone who notices," he said. "I do."
We were not a sudden fairy tale. We were late-night study dates and ramen and hungover breakfasts. We were books shared and small fights about leaving dishes in the sink.
"Do you forgive them?" Elliott asked once, months later.
"I don't know about forgiveness," I said. "But I forgive myself for staying too long, and I forgive myself for leaving."
Elliott laughed. "That's a start."
Boyd became a friend who called me "big sister" in front of everyone, and a small legend among our group for his one brave punch the night I was cornered. He wrote code for fun and left stickers on my laptop.
Harmony tried to apologize properly, not with jokes. She found me weeks later and said, "I'm sorry. I was jealous, and I was too blind to see how I hurt you."
"Why did you do it?" I asked.
"Because it was easier to laugh than to be honest," she said. "Because I thought being loud would cover a lot of quiet things."
"I hope you're honest now," I replied. "Not for me, but for yourself."
She hung her head. "I will try."
Our last scene together was quiet. It wasn't a dramatic public tearing down—just small corrections and adults choosing to be kinder. They learned privacy the hard way.
"You survived," Elliott said one evening as we sat on the small roof behind the dorm, counting stars.
"I didn't feel like I would," I admitted. "But here I am."
"You were not the white lotus everyone declared," he said, smiling. "You were a person who loved and got hurt."
"I am still someone who loves," I said. "But I am also someone who will not be treated like a background prop."
He put the small necklace he'd given me back on. It caught the moonlight.
"Promise me one thing?" he teased.
"No clichés," I said.
He laughed. "Promise: when you're famous for getting closure, I'll be in the front row."
I smiled at him the way I only ever had with him—easy, warm, and unafraid.
Some lessons are loud. Some are quiet. Mine had both. The video that burned across screens had been a moment of hurt, but the real change came from people deciding they would not laugh when someone was put down. That slow, ordinary correction felt like a real victory.
And on the roof, with Elliott's hand in mine and Boyd waving us off from the courtyard below, I understood the difference between being a "white lotus" and being myself. The necklace tapped my collarbone like a tiny reminder of who I had become.
The End
— Thank you for reading —