Kay closed her bedroom door softly, locking herself inside the three-by-three-meter space that had witnessed all her silent anxieties. The lively chatter of Pademangan's alleyway and the intoxicating validation from school faded, replaced only by the tired whir of her old fan. In this dimly lit fortress, it was just her and the glowing rectangle in her hands—a portal to a world that had suddenly acknowledged her existence. Her entire universe had shrunk to a six-inch screen, her heart pounding like a war drum—
a battlefield between soaring hope and the dread of a defendant awaiting verdict.
She sat cross-legged on her thin foam mattress, swallowing the sudden thickness in her throat. With a trembling breath—as if bracing to dive into uncharted digital depths—her cold thumb tapped the screen. The comments section opened.
The first wave was a tsunami of euphoria, sweeping her away without mercy. Hundreds of new comments flooded in, forming a digital chorus singing praises in languages of love she'd never heard before. Her thumb scrolled greedily, her eyes devouring every word like a starving woman.
"OMG YOU'RE SO PRETTY 😭😭😭 I'M ACTUALLY CRYING"
"THAT WINK AT THE BEGINNING MADE ME MELT LIKE I GOT HIT BY A TRUCK"
"THE MOVES ARE SO ADDICTIVE, I'VE WATCHED THIS 50 TIMES AND STILL NOT BORED"
"SCHOOL UNIFORM LOOKS HIGH-END WHEN YOU WEAR IT, LIKE A K-DRAMA"
"Officially crushing hard. Is there a cure for this?"
"YOUR AURA IS DIFFERENT. LIKE YOU'RE GLOWING FROM WITHIN"
"KEEP GOING, QUEEN! WE NEED MORE VIDEOS! DON'T STOP!"
A small, genuine laugh escaped her lips, sounding foreign even to her own ears. She rolled onto her bed, clutching her worn-out pillow so tightly her short nails dug into her palms. Her legs kicked the air in giddy delight, like a child tasting ice cream for the first time. This feeling… it was sweeter than anything she'd ever imagined. Each comment was an affirmation—she wasn't just seen; she was liked, wanted, desired. For the first time since that night—the night of shattered plates and a slammed door—the voices in her head, usually filled with self-doubt, were drowned out by the roaring praise of hundreds of strangers who suddenly cared. She felt like a superhero discovering her powers—invincible, yet fragile.
Addicted to the validation, she kept scrolling, ignoring how her eyes stung. Then came the second wave—comments laced with scrutiny, dissecting her life like a specimen.
"What phone do you use? The camera looks cinematic, like a celebrity's."
"Follow me back, pretty! I've shared your video 3x already!"
"Was the cross in the background intentional? Trying to look religious or what lol"
"Your moves are so similar to Acha the influencer's. Copied or coincidence?"
Her smile faltered. These weren't warm praises anymore. They were inspections, analyzing every element of her existence. People weren't just watching—they were studying her under a digital microscope. Her polished secondhand shoes, the phone she'd saved a year to buy, even the small wooden cross her grandmother left hanging crookedly on her wall. The spotlight that had felt like sunshine now burned like an operating lamp, exposing every pore.
She kept scrolling, unable to stop even as her fingers trembled. Then the tide shifted violently—the third wave arrived, carrying jagged stones that scraped against her euphoria.
"Lighting's kinda bad, get a ring light for flawless skin."
"Moves are good but weak at the 0:08 mark."
"Your smile looks forced, but overall decent I guess."
"Choreo's messy, some moves aren't sharp enough."
Her smile vanished completely, replaced by a faint crease between her brows. These weren't observations—they were critiques, precise as scalpels. Words like "weak", "forced", "messy" dissected every frame of her video. Suddenly, she saw all her flaws with brutal clarity—the dim yellow lighting, the stiffness in her movements despite hours of practice, her smile—God, did it really look fake?
And just as she hit the lowest point of this downward spiral, the fourth wave crashed over her like a midnight tsunami.
Kay froze at the username—@Rafiandra_99. Her heart hammered. Too close to Rafi, her school rival. This had to be him, or at least one of his friends.
"Dancing like a glitching robot. Acting all cutesy when you're actually a bitch at school. Trying too hard to get guys' attention? Disgusting."
Kay's world stopped spinning. The air in her lungs turned to ice, making her cough violently. The euphoric high evaporated in an instant, dropping her onto the cold floor of reality. Her once-warm hands turned numb, the phone in her grip suddenly heavy as a tombstone.
Glitching robot. The words dragged her back to last night—to her sweaty, frustrated self in front of the mirror, repeating the same moves until her legs cramped. After all that effort, this was what they saw?
Acting cutesy. Bitch. Trying too hard. These words cut deeper than she expected. This wasn't just about the video anymore—it was an attack on her essence. The accusation of "trying too hard" stung the most. Of course she was trying. She wanted to escape the shadow of the quiet girl from Pademangan's narrow alleys, the girl from the silent house, the girl haunted by her father's absence and her own guilt. She wanted to be someone else—someone bright, someone wanted. And this person, who knew her in real life, saw right through her. Her attempt to escape was so transparent, so… pathetic.
Then the final word. Disgusting.
It hung in the air like poison. Not just a comment—a curse, an absolute rejection of her existence.
Shaking, she replayed her video. Now, her eyes were tainted. Her smile, once sweet, looked tacky. The wink she thought was flirty now seemed cheap. Her moves, once energetic, looked like spasms. The school uniform everyone praised now felt like a clown costume.
They're right. I am disgusting.
She hurled her phone onto the bed, making Jennie's poster tremble on the wall. But the words had already seeped into her skull, looping endlessly like a stuck song. All the hugs, back pats, and compliments from school suddenly felt like lies.
Kay hugged her knees tightly, burying her face between them. Her tiny room became a prison cell. The roar of thousands of online praises meant nothing when you were alone in the dark, surrounded by the whispering shadows of criticism.