Kay's breath was still ragged, pumping hot air into her already stifling room. Her sweat-drenched school uniform clung to her back, and she could feel the last traces of adrenaline buzzing through her veins like static electricity. On her phone screen, the fifteen-second video sat frozen—proof of her struggle, an artifact of her alternate self.
She hit play. Then again. And again.
A swell of pride rose each time she caught that impulsive wink or the precise landing of a complicated footwork. But with every replay, her critical eye also caught flaws—dozens of them. The yellow bedroom light washed out her skin. There was a split-second wobble at the start when she'd fumbled the record button. And that final smile? Now she saw it—the exhaustion cracking through.
Can't post it like this, she thought, her newly awakened perfectionism taking over. The digital world didn't forgive mistakes. Perfection was the only language it spoke. Luck wasn't enough; she had to work.
With still-trembling fingers, she opened CapCut—her operating table, her digital scalpel. The raw footage loaded onto the timeline, ready for surgery.
First: the trim. She pinched the timeline, zooming in, shifting frames back and forth with bomb-defusal precision. She axed the shaky start and the tired-eyed ending, leaving only the explosion of energy in between.
Second: color correction. The hardest part. She nudged brightness up—just a tick—to fight her dingy lamp. Contrast sharpened the lines of her uniform. Saturation breathed life into her coral lip tint. She tread carefully, terrified of crossing into overedited territory. She wanted to look naturally perfect—the holy paradox of her generation.
Finally: filters. "Vintage" was too dark. "Foodie" too orange. She settled on "Creamy"—softening her skin texture, adding a cinematic warmth that didn't scream fake.
Twenty minutes and dozens of replays later, it was done. The flawed raw clip had transformed. Now, before her: a product. Fifteen seconds of sharp, bright, effortless charm. The best version of herself.
But the satisfaction was short-lived. The real torture awaited—the agonizing limbo before hitting Post.
She saved the edited video to her gallery, then opened the social media app. Selected the clip. The final screen loomed. Her thumb hovered over the bright red Post button—a detonator. All the fears she'd silenced with editing came roaring back.
What if no one likes it? What if they see right through me? Her thoughts raced. What if they look into my eyes and see I'm not some radiant schoolgirl, just a scared kid from Pademangan? A guilty one?
That last thought terrified her most. This video was her escape from that identity—a clean slate. What if it failed? What if people saw the cracks beneath the mask? What if Bima saw how desperately she craved his attention?
She almost tapped Back, almost deleted it all, almost retreated to the safety of invisibility. No risk, no pain. But then she remembered the hollowness of her room, her mother's vacant stare, the sound of shattering plates years ago. The agony of being unseen.
No. She'd rather be mocked than ignored.
A deep breath. She typed the caption fast, before she could chicken out:
"High schoolers can join too, right? Lol #StarlightChallenge"
She added the mandatory tags: #fyp, #kpopdancecover, #masasma, #dancechallengeid. Her heart pounded so hard she heard it in her ears. This was it.
Eyes squeezed shut, she pressed Post.
A suffocating silence as the Uploading... bar crawled. Then—Posted.
Done. Her video was loose in the wild. Kay flung her phone onto the bed like it had burned her. She strode to the window, staring at the dark alley outside, but her mind was laser-locked on that black rectangle behind her.
One minute. Two. Five. Nothing. No buzz. No notifications. Her stomach twisted. Told you. No one cares.
A soft knock. Her mom stood in the doorway, already in her work uniform.
"Kay, I'm heading out," she said—their nightly ritual for her late shifts. "Don't stay up."
"Okay. Be safe," Kay murmured, eyes darting back to her phone.
The door clicked shut. Alone again.
She waited. Ten minutes. Fifteen. Disappointment pooled in her chest. Just as she gave up, ready to sleep—
Bzzt.
She lunged for the phone. A notification. Sarah Adinda liked your video. Another vibration. Dinda Lestari liked your video. Then a comment:
Sarah Adinda: HOLY SHT KAYYY!!! THE UNIFORM THO!!! 🔥🔥🔥*
The breath she'd been holding escaped in a shudder. A real smile tugged at her lips. Sure, they were her friends—but it was real. The heart icon ticked up: 0 to 2. A start.
That night, Kay's world shrank to the size of her screen. She couldn't look away. She refreshed, again and again.
Refresh. 5 likes. 23 views.
Refresh. 7 likes. 31 views.
The numbers inched up at a torturous pace. Each new digit delivered a dopamine spike, instantly followed by anxiety over the sluggish climb.
By midnight: 48 likes. 172 views. Far from viral. But it was 48 hearts from people who'd seen her. More than she'd ever gotten in her life.
Eyelids heavy, she collapsed onto the bed. She didn't turn off the phone. Just stared, its white glow lighting her face in the dark. The number *48* hypnotized her. Right before sleep took her, it blinked—
49.
One more person. One more who saw her.
With that thought—and the strange mix of dread and fragile hope twisting in her chest—Kaisya finally fell asleep.