There’s something so wickedly delicious about confessions.
I think it’s the thrill of finally spilling your secrets, of getting to know something about someone that you never did before. That’s not to say all confessions are wonderful and charming - there are some that are downright chilling, like admitting to murder. But the actual event invokes a gleeful satisfaction, the knowledge that you now know something you had assumed or guessed or had no clue about.
There are so many types of confessions, and the emotions they evoke are so varied.
There are criminal confessions, often spine-tingling and disgusting, but they can be accompanied with relief and joy because they may result in conviction.
There are love confessions, which itself can go a variety of ways - unrequited, which causes tremendous pain and awkwardness; long-awaited, that brings happiness and disbelief; tremulous, that brings adoration and tenderness; accidental, that brings surprises galore.
There are angry confessions, tales about lies and deceit and secrets, bringing feelings of betrayal and spite.
There are begrudging confessions, which cause excitement and smugness.
There are calculated confessions, which aren’t confessions at all; they unfold like a perfect deck of cards.
There are anonymous confessions, in confessionals and empty beds in the solace of the night, bringing catharsis and lessening guilt.
There are quiet confessions, whispered into the wind when people expect none but themselves to hear, or small actions that tend to be overlooked.
There are forced confessions, moments where anger and violence and bundles of hate come to the fore, battling against the theft of free will.
All in all, there are confessions galore, elucidated in romance books and edge-of-the-seat thrillers and longwinding letters; each with a distinguishing characteristic of their own, bound together by a shared degree of mystery and sly magnetism.
Author: Ananya Chaure
Editor: Diya Chakraborty