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Chapter 12 - Chapter 11 — Confession Cam

Summer's POV

The Confession Hut had become the island's little terror: a single chair, a bright red recording light, and the knowledge that anything you said in there could be turned into headlines.

"Today's twist?" the host announced breezily. "Every contestant will record a one-minute, one-take confession—true feelings only. No edits—well, we'll edit later—but please keep it honest."

Summer felt the color drain from her face. One minute. One take. She could barely order coffee in one minute without stuttering.

Ethan caught her eye across the clearing and gave a wry, lopsided smile. "We're getting bolder."

"We're getting exploited," she muttered. Still, the red dot blinked on the tiny hut like a heartbeat. One minute was a long time when you had to be honest.

She waited in line, rehearsing harmless things. "I love sunsets." "I dislike mosquitoes." "The production team is suspiciously chipper." None of it felt real. Her throat tightened when she thought about the person she actually wanted to address.

When the producer waved her in, the hut felt smaller than she expected. The lamp softened her skin; the mic looked enormous. She sat down, forced a smile into place, and looked straight into the lens.

"Who is this for?" the off-camera voice asked.

She imagined answers—Liam, because he'd been kind and annoyingly fitting; Max, because he'd been a friend; the viewers, because they deserved the truth. But none of those were accurate.

She inhaled, steadying herself, and said quietly, "For Ethan—thank you for staying when it would have been easy to leave."

It came out rawer than she'd intended. Thank you for staying. The words felt heavy and small at once, hung in the hut like a secret.

She stepped out blinking; Ethan was waiting not far away, expression closed-off until she reached him.

"You went sentimental," he said, attempting lightness.

"Only one line," she replied. "I'll take the shame—if you do too."

He didn't answer. Instead he watched the ocean as if it might tell him what he'd just heard.

---

Ethan's POV

He'd dreaded the Confession Hut all morning. It forced things to the surface—things he'd been telling himself didn't matter. He kept rehearsing a joke, something clever but safe, but the second he sat down and saw the red light, the jokes evaporated.

"For Summer," he said before he could overthink it. He didn't want to be a man of one-liners; he wanted to be honest, quick and ugly or quick and true. "For Summer—if this island takes you away from me, I don't know who I'll be without you."

It was a stupid, earnest sentence and barely a minute long, but as soon as the words came out he felt like he'd left a piece of himself in the hut. He walked out shaking, lungs too full of salt air and sudden fear.

She was there, eyes wide. "You said it," she breathed.

He tried to play it off. "You said more poetic things."

She huffed, but it didn't hide the way her mouth softened. They both knew the cameras had heard, but the truth felt like it had landed between them, not on a timeline.

---

They thought the producers would respect the single-line intimacy. They were naive.

At the afternoon screening, a makeshift screen was set up and the cast gathered with mugs and blankets as if for a cozy movie night. The host grinned like someone about to drop a firework.

"Let's watch the Confession Cam highlights!" he announced.

The first clip was harmless—one contestant admitting she missed home. The crowd clapped politely. Then the edit changed tone. The bar slowed. Summer's voice, soft and deliberate: "For Ethan—thank you for staying." The frame held on her face; a cut to Ethan's line—"If this island takes you away from me, I don't know who I'll be without you." The sequence spliced in a close-up of Ethan's hand clenching sand, then Summer's eyes shining in the lantern light. The montage suggested a conversation—an exchange of promises they hadn't actually had.

The beach hummed. Giggles rose and then fell into a curious hush. Someone in the crew whooped. Clips were already being posted by production assistants. Within minutes, the lab that was their little island was lit up with notifications: #ConfessionCam #SummerEthan "Did they just admit feelings???"

Summer felt exposed, the words she'd said taking on a new life. Ethan's jaw clenched visibly. He turned toward her, indignation and something softer warring in his face.

"You okay?" she asked, though the answer was obvious.

He exhaled, a long, slow release. "No. I'm not okay. But also, I said what I meant." He ran a hand through his wet hair. "I didn't expect them to put it like that."

"They made it look like a duet," she said. "Like they staged it."

"Because they did," he snapped lightly. Then, quieter: "But I meant it."

She looked at him, really looked, and the look felt like an inventory—old hurts, new possibilities, the whole messy ledger of them.

"Don't hate the producers," she murmured. "Hate me if needed."

He surprised her by laughing—a short, real sound. "I don't hate you."

They stood close enough that the breeze lifted her hair and he could smell the salt and coconut sunscreen on her neck. For a moment the cameras were irrelevant and the island was only the two of them and the honest words they had given, whether willingly or tricked into it.

"Maybe," she said, "this is the universe being stupidly efficient about telling the truth."

"Then the universe can be sued for emotional damages," he replied.

She smiled despite herself. It wasn't a full reconciliation—nothing that dramatic—but it was a truce of sorts, a mutual agreement to be honest, if only for now.

Behind them, notifications chimed and fans began theorizing. In front of them, the tide moved in and out with a steady, indifferent patience.

Summer slipped her hand into his, tentative. He didn't pull away.

"Just one line," she whispered.

"One honest line," he answered.

And for once, both lines felt like the beginning, not the end.

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