Chapter 5: Public Shaming

Three days later, the package finally arrived. I almost sprinted to pick it up. But as soon as I entered the package station, the students in line scattered like I was the plague. Some covered their mouths and whispered. Some whipped out their phones to sneak pictures. Others pinched their noses and backed away.

My cheeks burned as I realized everyone in the mailroom was staring. Someone coughed into their sleeve, and I caught a flash from a phone camera. I could see my own reflection in the glass doors—hair in a messy bun, dark circles under my eyes, hands shoved deep in my jacket pockets. It felt like every eye in the place was drilling holes in my back.

"Pickup for 3685."

I handed my phone to the window. The clerk looked up, face going pale. He pinched the package between two fingers, tossed it onto the counter like it was a bomb, then immediately pulled out a bottle of Purell and doused himself.

"What’s your problem?"

I grabbed the package before it could fall. The clerk pursed his lips and took half a step back.

"Take your stuff and go. What rotten luck, running into you!"

"I’m going to complain about your attitude!"

"Complain?"

He suddenly raised his voice.

"Go ahead! People like you, spreading gross diseases—what’s wrong with disinfecting after you touched something? Everyone knows your dirty business now!"

The onlookers’ whispers got louder. I caught words like "campus forum" and "sugar baby."

My hands shaking, I opened the campus forum app. Right at the top was a pinned post:

[Confirmed: Female student named Natalie from the Economics Department sells herself for money, spreading STDs everywhere]

The post was full of grainy photos—me leaving my dad’s car, me outside the health center. They even tagged my Instagram handle. The photo angles were disturbingly precise. My face was in full HD, while other people’s faces and license plates were blurred out. The person posting was obviously afraid of messing with someone powerful—so they picked on me, an easy target.

It felt like a scene from a bad reality show—my life, edited and spliced for maximum humiliation. My fingers went numb as I scrolled through comment after comment, the words burning brighter than any pepper spray. I suddenly wondered how many people in line right now had liked or even shared that post.

The worst part was the comment section. A pinned "insider" swore I delivered "goods" every Friday. The likes had already broken a thousand.

I sneered and took a screenshot. Then I sent the link to my dad.

"Dad, they’ve discovered you were keeping me."

Three seconds later, my dad called.

After I hung up, I also filed a complaint against the clerk.

My dad’s voice was tight with fury, promising that his lawyer would be in touch with the university by morning. I realized, for the first time, how fast lies could travel—faster than any truth, faster than even the sting of humiliation.