The sky above Pademangan that Sunday afternoon was a pale, washed-out white, as if the sun had surrendered its brilliance and settled for simmering Jakarta's air into a stifling haze. The sticky heat seeped through the vents above Kaisya Anjani's—Kay's—bedroom window, carrying the unmistakable scent of her alleyway: a complex blend of never-drying sewage and the faint, savory aroma of rendang from a neighbor's kitchen. To Kay, this air was the breath of reality, slowly suffocating her.
Inside her three-by-three-meter room, she built her fortress against that reality. The peeling walls were plastered with K-pop posters—perfect faces staring blankly, promising a world far removed from this alley. The largest was a poster of BLACKPINK's Jennie, her gaze icy and expensive. Ironically, right beside that glamour hung a small wooden cross, slightly crooked on its nail, nearly invisible. On her cluttered study desk, a faux-leather black Bible lay dust-coated, its bookmark frozen in Psalms.
This was Kay's universe: a thin foam mattress, a desk, and her most sacred artifact—her smartphone. It rested beside her pillow, a portal to a glittering alternate world. With reflexes honed by countless hours of emptiness, her fingers tapped open the social media app. The For You timeline greeted her instantly. The first video featured a Korean dancer from a rising idol group—sharp moves, magnetic expressions, set to addictive music. Below it, a shimmering hashtag: #StarlightChallenge.
Don't, whispered her mind. It'll just make you feel worse.
But she couldn't stop. A torturous curiosity made her tap the hashtag, plunging her into the trend's ecosystem. Hundreds, maybe thousands, of videos flooded the screen. Then her eyes locked onto a familiar face: Acha, a popular influencer from another school, dancing flawlessly in a mirrored studio. Her outfit—a trendy crop top and cargo pants—screamed luxury. In the comments, Kay spotted a familiar profile icon: Bima Adriansyah. His comment was brief: "Keren Cha 🔥". Her heart twisted.
She scrolled further. Another girl, unknown but stunning, danced in an aesthetic room lit by neon and houseplants. Her moves weren't as sharp as Acha's, but she was gorgeous. Bima had liked this one too. The next video showed an ordinary girl, awkwardly dancing on her porch. Few likes. No Bima. The pattern was clear: To be seen by him, you had to be perfect—or at least breathtaking in a perfect setting.
A buzz from her group chat yanked her from her self-loathing spiral.
Geng Rusuh (3)
Sarah Adinda: Yo, y'all seen the #StarlightChallenge? That song's stuck in my head!
Dinda Lestari: Yeah, the choreo's insane. Not even trying lol.
(2 unread messages)
Sarah Adinda: But Acha's vid is fire. Kay, you see it? Bima liked it, duh!
Dinda Lestari: Ofc he did. Guy's everyone's crush. Admit it, Sar—you're into him too 😏.
Kay's fingers froze over the keyboard. She stared at Bima's name, biting her lip.
Kaisya Anjani: Saw it. Acha's good.
(typing...)
Kaisya Anjani: Challenge looks fun tho.
She sent it before overthinking—an attempt to sound casual, though her thumbs were sweaty.
Sarah Adinda: Shut up, Din 😂. But fr, Kay, you're flexible—you should try it! Who knows, you might go viral.
That last message was the trigger. Not just a nudge, but a dare. Her friends treated Bima like an unattainable trophy, half-jokingly dangling him as bait. But for Kay, it felt real. The desire to be seen as someone else—light, fun, unburdened—flared.
She locked her phone. The decision hung in the air: Do it. Don't. Do it. Don't. Her eyes swept her room. Jennie's poster judged her. The textbooks mocked her wasted time. Trapped, she made her choice: Yes.
But how? Doubts ambushed her. Where? Here? Her cramped, peeling walls offered no space. Lighting? Just her dingy yellow bulb? No ring light, no tripod. Every thought was another wall to climb.
The creak of a door across the hall interrupted her. Mom. 2 PM was morning for someone who'd just finished a night shift. Thirsty, Kay stepped out just as her mother shuffled toward the kitchen, face creased from sleep.
Without a glance, Mom grabbed a water bottle and chugged. The silence was thick.
"Just woke up?" Kay asked, just to break it.
A grunt. Only after half the bottle did Mom glance at her. "You eat?" Flat, obligatory.
"Yeah."
"Good." Mom trudged back to her room, leaving Kay alone in the kitchen.
Kay stood before the still-open fridge, its cold breath on her face. With a heavy sigh, she shut it quietly. The water glass in her hand was icy, but not as frigid as the silence between them.
Back in her room, she locked the loose doorknob. The three-by-three-meter space swallowed her again.
The quiet Mom left behind felt heavier here. It dragged her into the past. Her gaze landed on a small wooden box under her desk.
A memory sliced through—sharp, vivid. Twelve years old, reading comics in the living room. Dad's phone on the table. A notification: a heart emoji from an unknown name. Curiosity won. She unlocked it (she knew the pattern).
Betrayal. Flirty texts. Photos of a woman who wasn't Mom. Promises to meet. She didn't understand it all, but she understood pain. Blind loyalty propelled her to the kitchen. Too scared to show the phone, she stammered, "Mom... I saw Dad's texts... from another woman..."
She'd never forget Mom's face—soft smile to confusion to a terrifying blank mask. That night, war erupted. Huddled in her room, she heard the screams. One phrase from Dad cut through: "You believe Kay over me? She misread it, Rin!" Then—CRASH! A plate shattered. A door slammed. Dad left.
Since then, she carried the guilt alone. She'd struck the match in a gas-filled room. She'd shattered her family.
The silent scream of her twelve-year-old self still echoed: "I'm sorry."
Her phone buzzed, yanking her back. The urge to make the video became a need—to craft a new version of herself, one untainted, worthy of love. A redemption.
She pushed her bed against the wall, creating a makeshift stage. She played the tutorial and began. Awkward at first, embarrassing. But she didn't stop. Sweat soaked her shirt. She cursed after botching the refrain again. Frustration burned her eyes. She collapsed, panting, staring at her reflection—a girl with frizzy hair and a flushed face from effort, not charm. She wanted to quit.
Then she unlocked her phone. Bima's new story: a photo of Acha captioned "Congrats!" Jealousy and determination flared. She wouldn't lose.
She stood. Again. And again. For nearly an hour, her room witnessed her battle with the choreography.
Finally, she nailed it. Not as sharp as Acha, but fluid, energetic. She rested, then propped her phone on books and recorded test clips. The result? Disappointing. Her moves were good, but her faded tee and peeling walls ruined it. No visual appeal.
Desperate, her eyes landed on her school uniform—white blouse, gray skirt—hanging behind the door. A crazy idea sparked. Ridiculous. But... different. Very different.
A new plan formed. Full production. She applied light makeup—concealer for acne, coral lip tint. Then, the uniform. The contrast between stiff attire and energetic dancing felt odd... but intriguing.
She hit record.
Three. A breath.
Two. A wink—impulsive, flirty.
One.
Music pulsed. And Kaisya Anjani danced.
For fifteen seconds, she wasn't the guilt-ridden girl from Pademangan. She was a creator. A performer.
As the final pose held, she smiled until the clip ended. Staggering to her phone, she watched the replay.
Onscreen, a sweaty but confident girl in uniform smiled back. Someone familiar yet foreign. Someone who might be seen. Someone who might be... innocent.
And amid exhaustion and lingering doubt, a fragile spark of hope flickered to life.