Sweet Romance11 min read
I got paid to tell bedtime stories — then I lost my phone and found a boyfriend
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1
The summer after the college entrance exam, I took a strange little job.
"I'll pay eight hundred a month," the ad said. "Tell bedtime stories on the phone nightly. No video, no meeting. Just your voice."
"It sounds small," I told my mother, "but it's easy. I'm a night owl."
She laughed, "If WeChat had a 'nagging' feature, you'd be a top user."
At 9:57 p.m. I locked my door, pulled the blackout curtains, and made a routine of it: a chilled tea bottle in one hand, half a cold watermelon on the table, earbuds in, iPad with story notes open. I hit the call button. The ringtone barely finished before someone answered.
"Hello," a low voice came through the line. Warm, steady, too pleasant to be work.
"Hi." I smiled into the dark.
He had an easy habit of asking small, casual things as if we were neighbors rather than client and storyteller. "Decided which school?"
"I want to go to Jiaotong University," I said, meaning our city's transport university. "And you?"
"Hmm." He laughed softly. "Maybe there too. Maybe we'll be schoolmates."
My chest fluttered. "If we're schoolmates," I said, "I'll give you a discount when I have to keep you asleep."
"You'd do that?" he asked.
"Of course."
2
The job was routine: ten p.m. calls, stories, wait until he fell asleep, end the call. I had internalized "sleep" tones and pacing. I read little scraps—talking bears, silly pigs, lost dumplings—and I told them as if I believed them.
"Where do you find these?" he asked once, a smile easy over the wire.
"Closed-circuit of the internet. And my brain," I said. "Now close your eyes. Breathe."
We both laughed. Then one night, I started dozing mid-story. "Two pigs walked into a little house and—wow—two leek pockets!"
A soft chuckle came, not rude, but pleased. "You fall asleep sometimes, too?"
"I do," I admitted. "It happens."
"Your breathing is actually...helpful."
"You mean my snoring?"
"A little. It's comforting."
We both kept the line open that night. I woke at dawn with the phone still connected.
"You're still there?" I asked, embarrassed.
"Mm." He sounded fuzzy with sleep. "You were...adorable."
"Eight hundred's still due," I muttered.
He didn't argue. "It's fine."
3
Later that week, my mother announced, "Ramon's back."
Ramon Bishop had always been the safe figure in our building—nearby big brother, always in white shirts, the kind of boy who read quietly on the balcony. When we were kids I confessed a silly childish crush and he ruffled my hair.
"If you get into Jiaotong next year, we'll be together, okay?" I had said, following a child's promise.
"Okay," he had answered, warm as always.
Now he returned different. His hair was cropped, he wore flowers, a small hoop in his left ear, and—shock—no more soft brown frames. It made my chest twist the wrong way. He smiled, invited me in casually. "How'd the exam go?"
"I did okay." I told him I wanted Jiaotong. He nodded, but his eyes paused over me in a way that said, There are other options. He said, "If you get in, remember, good schools are everywhere."
As if the promise had been weightless.
I left stunned, angry at myself for being so timid that I didn't push to hear more. I chased comfort by going out to a new hot pot place alone.
4
At the restaurant, a masked waiter steered me to a corner table. He wore a plain uniform but his eyes—just above the mask—were sharp and they made my heart jump.
"Are you alone?" he asked.
"Yes," I said. He turned and returned with a huge stuffed bear and set it opposite me. "You shouldn't be alone with hot pot," he said with a grin. "Here's a friend."
The voice was familiar. My phone buzzed. On the screen was the client number from my nights—Dustin Campos.
"You're the one who pays me to tell bedtime stories?" I asked, embarrassed at the thought of a customer waiting in a hot pot restaurant.
"Yes." He took off his mask. Up close he was disarmingly handsome. "You said you'd buy me dinner." He sat down.
"Wait—Dustin?" I asked. "You work here?"
He nodded, laughed. "I do both. Day job and night job. I can afford both...sometimes."
He told me not to worry, that his manager would be fine with him leaving for a little while. I refused his offer to pay—until he insisted, and I let him.
"What if your salary gets docked for leaving?"
"I'm okay with it," he said easily. "I want to be with you."
His ease confused me all night. He talked to me as an equal, teased me, and, when I drank too much, he handled my sudden nausea like a kind, practiced friend. Walking me home, he stood awkwardly at my door.
"I'll smoke in the stairwell," he said. "I don't want to ruin your blue-check relationship with your childhood sweetheart."
I laughed. "Promise me you'll tell me a real story tonight."
"I will."
5
We ran into Ramon in the courtyard. He had a new friend—Estefania Corbett. She wore a black biker jacket and had a helmet set on the stone table beside her. She was all edge: powerful, slash-of-light, hair loose over one shoulder. Ramon looked like he was trying to be exactly the person she would like.
She introduced herself smoothly. "Estefania," she said as if the world knew her name already. Her handshake was soft and faintly warm. I squeezed back and felt foolish—her hand was softer than anything I expected.
Dustin leaned in and whispered, "Your old boyfriend?"
"Nearly," I said cooly and looped my arm through his.
Estefania's glance skimmed us, appraising. She smiled oddly. "Interesting."
Ramon's flushing face told me everything: he was embarrassed to have his old promise discovered. Estefania's attention made him act sheepish and trying-hard. I decided to walk up and "help" my heart by pretending I was fine. Dustin clasped my hand. His fingers were warm and my breathing changed without permission.
6
The nights after that felt different. Dustin opened the calls with a lower, softer greeting.
"No sad stories tonight," he said. "Tell me something bright."
"Bright?" I teased. "Like a pig with a sunhat?"
"Something like that."
We traded silly tales; he asked me about my choices, my dreams. I told him all the little things—how I hoarded figurines in a cabinet and how one was a special figure I loved so much. He listened like every word mattered.
A few days after my exams, the results came out. I scored 612. I couldn't help telling him first.
"I knew you could," he said and I heard honest joy in his voice.
"How'd you do?" I asked back, and then froze when he answered.
"631," he said.
My voice toppled into silence. He had beaten me. The pit of defeat was sharp and immediate and, oddly, not bitter. When I stammered my congratulations, he said softly, "We'll be classmates then, right?"
"For Jiaotong," I said.
7
Family visits followed. My aunt came with my cousin for a big "celebration." Aunt Irma Martins loved to show off. Her daughter—my cousin Journee Abe—listened with a smile that never reached her eyes. She was the kind of girl who collected grudges like jewelry. When she bragged about her own suitor, I laughed, and she stormed off to the restroom.
Later I found a cruel surprise: my most treasured figure—kept behind glass—was slashed. Someone had used a blade to carve lines across its face.
I wanted to scream. My phone had been taken that day from my pocket on a crowded bus. Someone had sent rambling, intimate messages from it to Ramon. The screenshot Ramon sent to me stank of betrayal. The voice on the message? Her whispered reading was captured on my cheap night camera aimed at the figurine. The camera had footage: Journee at 2:53 p.m., sneaking into my room to ruin the figure. She had read from my phone, mouthing the words as she typed.
I sat on my bed. The footage was enough. I could take it to Aunt Irma, but I also plotted a different thing. The family would throw a big party for Aunt Irma's birthday in a few days. I put the recording where it would sting the hardest—saved to my phone, ready to be shared.
8
The birthday night was crowded. The room hummed with chatter. My cousin stood by the door in a white dress, coy and sweet to everyone. Aunt Irma fluffed herself with pride, waiting for the "surprise" guest she said her daughter had invited.
That "surprise" was Dustin. He arrived with no grand show—black clothes, no makeup, a small bag in his hand. He walked in like someone who belonged nowhere and everywhere at once. Journee stiffened the instant she saw him. She had expected a different sort of man—someone to inflate her image. Instead he crossed the room confidently, reached for my hand, and said, loud enough for the circle to hear:
"She asked me to come."
I felt a new kind of confidence flood me. Dustin squeezed my fingers and kept his face steady.
"Is this the one?" Aunt Irma asked, eyes bright with the thought of a future match.
Dustin bowed a little. "Ms. Martins, I wasn't sure you wanted me here, but I came for dinner."
I flicked my thumb and the video played in the family chat and on many phones. The footage showed Journee in action, the voice she used, the crude lines from the message. The room went quiet—phones lit faces—and then noise like a wave rose. Aunt Irma's hand shot up and, in a motion quick and clean, struck Journee across the cheek.
"How dare you!" she said, her voice hot. "You embarrass me. You embarrass this family."
Journee clutched her face, furious, and lunged toward Aunt Irma. "She set me up!" she screamed. "It's a lie!"
"Then explain yourself," Aunt Irma snapped, not lowering her hand.
I stood and spoke, keeping my voice flat. "I had cameras. I saw you, Journee. You broke my figurine and used my phone to write that thing. You wanted to make me look foolish."
Journee's face changed: at first red with anger, then a sharp slide into panic as the people around the table reached for their phones and started calling friends, recording. A dozen whispers rose. "She did that?" "Wow." "I can't believe she used a phone to do such a thing."
She tried to recover by throwing out a new lie. "You gave me your phone!" she cried. "You wanted me to hush—"
"That's enough," Aunt Irma said, her voice cold now. "Everyone sees the video. You will apologize publicly."
Journee's denial crumbled. First she sputtered, then wheezed, then her bravado cracked and she tried bargaining. "Please—I'm sorry! Please don't—I'll—I'll apologize. I can fix the figurine. It wasn't supposed to be like this."
Guests around the table reacted like fish sensing blood. Some pulled out phones and filmed. One cousin whispered, "She always did things like this." Another neighbor crossed their arms and said, "I never trusted her."
"Apologize now," Aunt Irma commanded.
Journee's hands shook. She swallowed. "I'm sorry," she whispered, but the apology sounded paper thin. She turned pleading eyes to Aunt Irma, hoping for a private mercy.
Aunt Irma didn't give it. "Say it to everyone," she ordered.
"I am sorry for hurting Aliana," Journee said, voice small.
Murmurs rippled. People began to step away from her. One of my relatives—my mother's old college friend—lifted her chin and said clearly, "I never liked how you faked innocence. You've made a lot of trouble."
Journee's face crumbled. Tears leaked out but they tasted like humiliation rather than regret. A neighbor reached for a napkin, offering it with a look that mixed pity and contempt. "Go home," someone else said.
As she retreated, guests whispered and some even clapped Aunt Irma on the shoulder. "Good for you," a woman said. "Finally justice."
Journee left red-cheeked and defeated. She didn't even try to argue further. The party dissolved into awkward small talk and people dropping out. My aunt, flushed with victory, then turned to me with a face that still wore a fierce pride.
"You did the right thing," she said. "Never let anyone humiliate you."
I laughed, breathless and a little dizzy. Without the need to keep the pretense of a cordial family, the room thinned. People left. The birthday party ended early, and the family car was parked in half-empty rows.
9
After everyone left, my hand still clenched in Dustin's. "Are you okay?" he asked.
I looked at him and felt something real and calm in his face. "That felt good," I admitted.
"But it was so public," he said, eyes darkening when he thought of what Journee had tried to do.
"It had to be public," I said. "She wanted to humiliate me with others around."
He nodded. "I wanted to be there sooner. You told me to come if you needed a scene."
"You did better than necessary," I said and smiled.
10
Ramon called later that night. "Was that your boyfriend?" he asked in a tone I couldn't read.
"Yes," I said. "He came because I texted him."
"I thought you were angry."
"I was," I admitted. "But I also didn't want to be the one who's always walked over."
Ramon's voice softened. "I understand."
We were old friends but the promise he'd once made—that if I got into Jiaotong we'd be together—no longer lived in the same space it used to. I had decided to go to Jiaotong for me, not for him.
11
Weeks passed and life started the way new things do: normal and wonderful and small. Dustin and I kept our nightly calls, but we also started to meet in daylight. He had a quiet steadiness; at night he listened like a man who could hold things. During the day he was shy and protective, and his hands were warm when he took mine in public.
There were sweet small things that made my heart flip.
"Do you want my jacket?" he asked one rainy evening, draping it over me without a word. I looked at him and, for once, he wasn't the man who worked two jobs—he was the man who foresaw I would be cold and did something about it without being asked.
"How do you always know I'm cold?" I said.
"You always say you are in small voices," he told me. "At one in the morning when you're yawning and don't want to admit it."
Another night he surprised me. We were walking home and he stopped under a streetlamp. "I like hearing your voice. Even nonsense," he said. "It became the thing I look forward to."
My cheeks warmed.
One afternoon at campus orientation, he smiled at me in front of a group and I heard students whisper, "He never looks at anyone like that." It felt like being a secret delighted thing between us.
12
The nights of storytelling changed tones. I sometimes started the call and he interrupted. "Tonight I want to tell you a story," he'd say. Once his voice grew safer and gentle.
"Once there was a boy who watched a girl from across a tea shop. He learned her habits, liked her lists, and then decided to be brave the day after the exam."
He paused, then asked, "If that boy confessed, what would you say?"
There was no script for this conversation. For a bewildered second I felt like the girl in his story. "I'd say yes," I heard myself answer, surprising my own mouth.
13
We had our first date. It was small and awkward and perfect. He held my hand when I reached for something at the food stall. When the street breeze lifted my hair he tucked a strand behind my ear. His fingers brushed my cheek. It was so normal—so utterly startling.
When we returned to campus a few months later, both accepted into Jiaotong, we stood side-by-side under the university gates and watched the flags flutter.
"You ready?" he asked.
"More than ready," I said.
He laughed that soft laugh of his, and we walked through together. The future was a bright day stretched in front of us. I felt like I'd earned a secret: not because I had proved anyone wrong, but because I had learned how to stand up for myself.
14
After the storms with my cousin, life settled into small routines. I still told bedtime stories for a client who probably never knew me beyond my voice. But now I told them with someone who sometimes answered with his own low voice and sometimes fell asleep. The broken figurine was stored away—repaired, not quite perfect, but visible on a shelf as a witness to those weeks of trouble and triumph.
I keep the little surveillance camera on the windowsill—not to spy on people, but like a bookmark of who I used to be and who I became. Once in a while I rewind that footage and remind myself that I didn't have to be small for anyone.
15
One evening, months later, I was folding laundry when the phone rang. Dustin's number lit the screen.
"Tell me the story about the boy in the tea shop again," he said. "But make him braver this time."
I laughed. "He is braver now. He chose to stand in the light."
He answered softly, "Because of you."
I kept the line on while I set down the folded shirts. Outside, the night moved with the same steady breath as always. My iPad was open; my little camera blinked a green light. The cheap camera had once saved me, and now it blinked like an old friend.
"Good night," he whispered finally.
"Good night," I replied, "and thank you—for coming to a birthday party on short notice, for buying me dinner, for staying awake when you had work tomorrow."
He chuckled. "You told me for a month you'd be alone on your birthday."
"I did?"
"Well, now you choose who's in the room," he said.
"Now I do," I agreed, thinking of the broken figurine restored on my shelf and the little camera that watched over it.
He breathed, "See you tomorrow."
I smiled into the silent dark. When the line clicked and the small sound of connection closing faded, I turned toward my shelf and touched the repaired figurine gently.
It still bore a scar, a thin white line across its cheek. I had glued it back together. The scar didn't ruin it; it made the figure, and me, different in a good way.
"Promise me one thing," Dustin had said once, jokingly, months before.
"What's that?"
"Tell more stories."
"I promise," I said.
He laughed softly, and I spoke the words he needed to sleep.
"Once there was a girl who learned that some promises weren't for other people at all. They were for herself. And she kept them."
The moon outside was a thin silver coin. I watched it from my window until it sank. My phone stayed beside me—silent now but familiar. The nights of being paid to tell stories became the nights of building a life, voice by voice, story by story.
The End
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