Your sister’s voice follows, floating up the stairs, bright and exasperated.

Later, when the house is quiet, you’re scrolling. Your thumb moves on its own, pulled through the digital shrine your sister bookmarked on your shared laptop. Fan-cams. Fancams of the fancams. Slow-motion edits of a smile, a spin, a sweep of hair. A sea of purple hearts and comments in all caps. KING. PERFECTION. I WOULD DIE FOR YOU.

You stare at the screen, the blue light washing out your face in the dark room. The praise is so absolute, so uncritical, it feels like looking into a sun. It’s… a lot.

A petty, sharp little thought curls in the back of your mind. You don’t shrug it off. You sit up.

The fake account takes less than sixty seconds. No name. A default gray avatar. Nothing that leads back to this room, this house, you.

Your cursor blinks in the comment section of a video titled “Jungkook Being A Whole Meal For 10 Minutes Straight.” You type the first absurd thing that comes to mind.

You hit post. The comment vanishes into the stream, one unmarked stone in a river of adoration.