Ipsita Sharma
One
Kunal Malhotra sat at his cluttered study desk, a half-finished math assignment spread before him, the pages filled with doodles instead of equations. His hair was messy, his eyes half-closed, but the frustration boiling inside him refused to let him sleep. Tomorrow was another Monday—another week of endless homework, boring classes, and that dreadful morning assembly where students stood like robots reciting prayers they barely believed in. He opened his phone, intending to scroll aimlessly through memes until sleep took over, but something inside him snapped. Instead of laughing at someone else’s jokes, he turned the camera on himself. His reflection on the screen showed a tired seventeen-year-old in a wrinkled T-shirt, but when he hit record, words came rushing out—sharp, witty, laced with sarcasm. He ranted about the unfairness of teachers giving projects on weekends, about school Wi-Fi being slower than Mumbai’s traffic, and about the absurdity of being forced to clap at every “inspirational” speech during assembly. His voice rose, his expressions grew animated, and he ended with a dramatic sigh, collapsing onto his chair. He laughed at his own performance, thinking it was nothing more than a silly vent, but when he hit upload on Instagram, he didn’t even bother to check if the video was set to private or public.
By the time Kunal finally dozed off, phone still in his hand, the video had started spreading like wildfire. Someone shared it to their WhatsApp group, then another reposted it on their story. The algorithm picked up the sudden flurry of activity, and before dawn, notifications were piling up at a speed his phone could barely handle. Kunal woke up groggy the next morning, still wearing yesterday’s T-shirt, and was greeted by the blinding glow of hundreds of Instagram alerts. His follower count had doubled overnight. People he hadn’t spoken to in years were tagging him, laughing at his expressions, commenting with fire emojis and “so true, bro.” By the time he reached school, he realized his life had shifted in ways he hadn’t even begun to understand. Students who usually ignored him now greeted him with wide grins, teachers whispered and exchanged glances as he passed by, and even the canteen guy chuckled when handing him his samosa, muttering, “viral star, huh?” The corridors, once just the dull backdrop of his daily routine, now buzzed with the sound of his name.
For Kunal, it was a heady mix of disbelief and excitement. He was used to being invisible—the kid who blended in, neither topping exams nor causing enough trouble to stand out. But now, everywhere he looked, someone was quoting his rant: “school Wi-Fi slower than traffic,” or “the robotic prayer chants.” Even students from higher grades were sending him friend requests, and Kabir Mehta, the class’s self-proclaimed cool guy, suddenly slapped him on the back and declared, “Bro, that was legendary. We need to collab!” Kunal laughed it off, still unsure whether this was a dream or reality. Beneath the thrill, though, there was a flicker of unease he didn’t acknowledge. For now, he let himself be swept up by the energy of being noticed, of being recognized not as average Kunal Malhotra, but as the boy who had said what everyone else was thinking. Overnight, he had gone from being just another student in the crowd to something else entirely: “that viral kid.” And though he didn’t know it yet, his life had just been flipped upside down.
Two
When Kunal walked into class the next morning, he immediately knew something had changed. Normally, his entrance would go unnoticed, lost in the hum of early chatter, the shuffling of books, and the squeak of chalk on the blackboard. But today, heads turned. A few clapped mockingly as he slid into his seat, while others grinned and whispered his name. Someone at the back even played his viral rant on their phone, the familiar lines echoing across the room: “School Wi-Fi slower than Mumbai traffic!” followed by a burst of laughter. Kunal tried to act casual, sinking into his chair, but the truth was his stomach buzzed with a strange mix of pride and anxiety. It was surreal to hear his own words bouncing around the classroom, suddenly more powerful than anything he’d ever said in person. The invisibility cloak he’d worn for years had been yanked off overnight, and the attention was both intoxicating and unnerving.
The shift became clearer when Kabir Mehta, the boy who usually strutted around like he owned the school, sauntered up to him. Kabir rarely spoke to Kunal unless it was to borrow a pen or mock his cricket skills during P.E., but today his tone dripped with forced camaraderie. “Bro, that video…legendary!” Kabir exclaimed, plopping himself into the seat next to Kunal as if they’d been friends forever. “We should totally do something together. I’ve got a ring light at home and ideas for skits. Imagine the views!” His smile was wide, but his eyes carried the unmistakable glint of opportunism. Kunal laughed nervously, unsure how to respond, while Rhea, seated two rows away, shot him a look that blended amusement with concern. She leaned over later to whisper, “Careful, superstar. Kabir smells trends the way sharks smell blood.” Her words were light, but Kunal knew she wasn’t joking. He appreciated her honesty, yet a part of him couldn’t ignore the thrill of being courted by someone like Kabir. For once, the “cool crowd” wanted him—not the other way around.
Even the teachers weren’t immune to the gossip. During chemistry, Mr. Fernandes paused mid-lecture to smirk at Kunal, saying, “Maybe our resident comedian can explain covalent bonds?” The class erupted in laughter, though Kunal couldn’t tell if it was friendly or mocking. Later, in the staff room, he overheard two teachers whispering about whether his “antics” distracted from academics. The sudden duality of being admired and criticized weighed on him more than he expected. By lunch break, the line between Kunal’s real life and his online persona had already started to blur. Classmates approached him, not to ask about homework or cricket practice, but to suggest new video ideas or pitch jokes he could use. Every conversation revolved around likes, shares, and the promise of more viral fame. Rhea, watching from the sidelines, worried he was being swallowed by this whirlwind. She teased him, yes, but deep down she wondered if the Kunal she knew—the sarcastic, slightly lazy boy who made her laugh during boring assemblies—would soon be buried under the pressure of being “that viral kid.” And for the first time, Kunal himself wasn’t sure which version of him was real anymore.
Three
Kunal had just begun adjusting to his strange new reality when the most unexpected twist arrived: Sneha Kapoor, the senior everyone in school knew as the “queen of Instagram,” suddenly slid into his DMs. She was known for her flawless selfies, polished reels, and thousands of followers who adored her fashion hauls and motivational captions. To Kunal, she had always seemed like a distant celebrity, someone who existed on a higher plane of teenage existence, untouchable and perfectly curated. Her message was short but electrifying: “Loved your rant! Collab sometime?” Kunal reread it five times, heart pounding, before replying with a clumsy, “Sure, anytime.” The very next weekend, he found himself standing in Sneha’s carefully decorated bedroom studio, surrounded by ring lights, tripods, and a wardrobe that could rival a boutique. She explained angles, filters, and the magic of hashtags, tossing around terms like “engagement rates” and “reach” as easily as if she were reciting multiplication tables. Kunal was mesmerized—not just by Sneha, who seemed larger-than-life in person, but by the world she inhabited, a place where even the smallest detail was designed for impact.
Their first video together was nothing fancy—just a split-screen skit about annoying teachers—but Sneha edited it with transitions and catchy music before uploading it to her profile. Within hours, Kunal’s follower count skyrocketed again. Comments poured in: “Collab of the year!” “Sneha and new guy = fire!” “More content please!” The numbers dazzled him, each like and share a tiny burst of validation. Suddenly, people weren’t just recognizing him in the school corridors—they were approaching him in the canteen for selfies, tagging him in memes, and asking for shout-outs. Kabir latched on quickly, hanging around Kunal more than ever, while others who had once barely noticed him now spoke to him like an old friend. It was exhilarating, addictive, and overwhelming all at once. Sneha kept feeding him tips, reminding him to post regularly, to never underestimate the power of trending hashtags, and to maintain a “brand.” Kunal, who had once uploaded a rant half-asleep without thinking, now found himself obsessing over captions, filters, and whether his expressions looked “natural” enough. He loved the rush of being relevant, of mattering in ways he never had before, but somewhere in the whirlwind, he barely noticed the quiet shifts happening closer to home.
Rhea, who had always been his first audience for jokes and rants, began fading into the background. She would wait for him after class, only to find him surrounded by new admirers or busy discussing ideas with Sneha. At first, she laughed it off, teasing him about his “celebrity glow,” but soon the teasing gave way to silences. She didn’t understand the appeal of hashtags or the obsession with followers, and though she tried to be supportive, she couldn’t help feeling pushed aside. The more Kunal basked in Sneha’s curated world, the more Rhea wondered if her friend was disappearing into someone else entirely. Kunal, blinded by the attention, noticed only in fleeting moments—like when Rhea’s smile didn’t reach her eyes, or when she stopped replying instantly to his messages. Deep down, he knew something was shifting, but the thrill of the influencer circle was too strong to resist. For the first time, Kunal Malhotra felt like he was climbing toward a dream he hadn’t even known he had—and he didn’t realize the cost of leaving someone important behind.
Four
The high of Kunal’s newfound popularity didn’t last long. After a week of collaborations, memes, and growing numbers, he decided to post another solo rant—this time about the chaos of Mumbai’s local trains. He stayed up late scripting it, rehearsing expressions, and making sure every line landed with the kind of punch he thought the internet craved. When he finally uploaded it, he felt a surge of pride. At first, the response was encouraging: hundreds of likes, people tagging friends, laughing emojis flooding the comments. But as the hours passed, the tone shifted. Hidden among the praise were comments that sliced through his excitement like cold steel. “Who even is this wannabe?” “Bro looks like he hasn’t showered in weeks.” “This guy’s voice is so irritating, mute button pls.” Some were crueler, mocking his clothes, his acne, even calling him a “discount comedian.” The more Kunal scrolled, the tighter his chest felt. The joy of validation crumbled, replaced by a pit of dread as he realized that with visibility came not just applause but scrutiny—and cruelty.
By the next morning, Kunal could barely look at his phone without feeling sick. Every notification felt like a potential jab, and no matter how many positive comments he saw, his mind latched onto the hateful ones. He considered deleting the video, even his entire account, just to make the voices disappear. But when he confessed his fears to Kabir and Sneha, their reactions were startlingly different. Kabir laughed it off, slapping him on the back. “Bro, you’ve made it! Trolls are proof you’re relevant. Nobody bothers hating on nobodies.” Sneha, ever the strategist, leaned in with a reassuring smile. “It’s noise, Kunal. You can’t give them that power. Every comment, good or bad, boosts engagement. You should be using this buzz, not running from it.” Their words were meant to soothe him, but they only deepened his confusion. Part of him longed to believe them—that the hate didn’t matter, that he could rise above it. But another part, quieter and more honest, wondered if chasing approval from strangers was worth the constant knot of anxiety twisting inside him. For the first time, the glossy world of followers and hashtags didn’t feel so shiny.
In school, the fallout was just as complicated. Some classmates mimicked the trolls, making fun of his voice or deliberately exaggerating his mannerisms to get laughs. Others rallied to his defense, insisting he was “too real” for the haters. But the mixed reactions only made Kunal feel more exposed, like he was walking around with a target painted on his back. Rhea noticed the slump in his shoulders, the way he stared blankly at his phone during breaks, and tried to check in. “You don’t look okay,” she told him softly, but he brushed her off with a forced grin, insisting he was fine. Deep down, he wasn’t. The hate comments replayed in his head like a loop, eroding the confidence that had once come so easily when he ranted into the camera. At night, lying awake in his room, he wondered who he was doing all this for—was it for himself, or for the fleeting approval of people who didn’t know him and didn’t care? He hadn’t found an answer yet, but one thing was clear: being “that viral kid” came with shadows he hadn’t seen before, and they were growing darker with every new notification.
Five
Kabir wasted no time in pulling Kunal deeper into the world of “influencer culture.” Within days, Kunal found himself invited to parties that looked glamorous on Instagram but felt hollow in real life. There were neon lights, curated snack tables, and groups of teenagers posing endlessly for pictures, changing angles and filters until the “vibe” was just right. Kabir introduced him to other aspiring creators—boys who flexed their gym selfies and girls who practiced TikTok dances for hours, all obsessed with gaining traction online. At first, Kunal tried to play along, laughing louder than usual, nodding at conversations about followers and brand deals he barely understood. But as the evening dragged on, he realized something unsettling: whenever the cameras weren’t rolling, no one really paid attention to him. The energy in the room dimmed the moment phones went back into pockets, revealing awkward silences and bored expressions. People only approached him when Kabir suggested a collab video or Sneha tagged him in a story. Off-camera, he was invisible again, just like before—except now he felt lonelier, standing in the middle of a crowded room.
The disconnect gnawed at him, but he kept pushing it down, telling himself this was the price of relevance. It was Rhea, however, who refused to let it slide. One afternoon, she confronted him outside the school gate, arms folded, her eyes sharp with disappointment. “This isn’t you, Kunal,” she said flatly. “Since when do you need ring lights and hashtags to be funny? You used to rant because you had something real to say, not because you wanted followers.” Her words cut deeper than the trolls ever had, because they came from someone who had always known him best. But instead of listening, Kunal snapped. “You don’t get it, Rhea. You’ve never been ignored your whole life. You don’t know what it feels like to finally matter.” His voice cracked, harsher than he intended, but once it was out, he couldn’t take it back. The look on her face—hurt, mixed with quiet anger—was worse than any hate comment online. She shook her head, muttering, “Maybe I don’t know you anymore,” before walking away. The silence she left behind was heavier than the noise of trolls or fake friends.
That night, surrounded by notifications and the glow of his phone screen, Kunal felt the full weight of the fracture. His follower count kept climbing, the comments on his latest video filled with fire emojis and laughing faces, but none of it brought comfort. The parties, the collabs, the fake smiles—they all blurred together, leaving him empty when the cameras stopped rolling. For the first time since going viral, he questioned whether the world he had stumbled into was worth losing the only person who had always been real with him. Kabir’s energy, Sneha’s polished advice, the endless buzz of likes and shares—it all seemed shallow compared to one honest conversation with Rhea. But pride and confusion kept him from reaching out. He told himself he didn’t need her, that this was the path he had chosen. Yet lying awake in the dark, scrolling mindlessly through his feed, Kunal realized the cruel irony: the higher his follower count climbed, the lonelier he felt inside.
Six
Kunal had grown used to chasing the adrenaline rush of views and likes, each new video needing to outdo the last. When Kabir suggested making a skit about their strict math teacher, Mr. Sharma—famous among students for his booming voice and obsession with discipline—Kunal hesitated. Something about it felt riskier than his usual school-life rants. But the temptation of quick laughs and trending potential was too strong. Late one night, he recorded the video, exaggerating Mr. Sharma’s mannerisms, mimicking his stern walk, and throwing in sarcastic one-liners about equations nobody cared about. To Kunal, it seemed harmless, just another joke his classmates would relate to. He hit upload without thinking twice, already imagining the surge of notifications. And sure enough, the next morning, his phone was blowing up. The video spread like wildfire, not just among students but beyond, shared across groups, WhatsApp chains, and even reaching alumni who found the parody hilarious. For a moment, Kunal basked in the glory, convinced he had struck comedy gold.
But by midday, the laughter turned into trouble. Word had reached the teachers, and by lunch break, Kunal’s name was echoing in the corridors for all the wrong reasons. The principal’s stern-faced assistant appeared in his classroom, summoning him to the office. The walk there felt like a slow-motion nightmare, his stomach twisting with every step. Inside, Principal Desai sat with folded arms, the viral video already playing on a laptop screen. Mr. Sharma stood nearby, his expression a stormy mix of hurt and fury. “So, this is how you entertain yourself, Malhotra? By ridiculing your teachers for likes?” the principal’s voice was cold, cutting. Kunal stammered apologies, insisting it was meant as harmless fun, but the words sounded weak even to his own ears. The punishment was swift: a formal warning on his record, a call to his parents, and the threat of suspension if such behavior continued. By the time he left the office, Kunal’s earlier thrill had dissolved completely, replaced by shame that burned hotter than any spotlight ever had.
The real blow came at home. His father, who had already been skeptical about Kunal’s “online hobby,” was livid. “You’ve embarrassed us, Kunal! Do you think this is a joke? Do you know how hard I’ve worked for your education, and you waste it making fun of teachers?” His father’s voice thundered through the house, while his mother’s disappointed silence cut even deeper. For the first time, Kunal felt the full collision of his two worlds: the digital persona who thrived on attention, and the real teenager facing consequences he couldn’t swipe away. Sitting alone in his room that night, phone buzzing endlessly with notifications he couldn’t bring himself to check, he asked himself the question he had been avoiding for weeks: Was internet fame really worth this? The followers, the likes, the fleeting validation—none of it felt like enough to balance the weight of his father’s anger, the humiliation at school, or the hollow pit growing inside him. For the first time since going viral, Kunal didn’t feel like a hero of hashtags. He just felt like a boy who had lost control of his own story.
Seven
Kunal had always seen Sneha as the embodiment of influencer perfection. She seemed untouchable—always dressed immaculately, always knowing which filter worked best, always smiling effortlessly in front of the camera. To him, she was proof that online fame could be glamorous, controlled, and powerful. So when she invited him over for another collab, he expected the usual polished setup: ring lights glowing, props in place, scripts rehearsed. But that day, something felt off. Sneha greeted him in an oversized hoodie, her hair tied messily, her face bare of makeup. The room that usually buzzed with activity was strangely quiet, her phone lying face down on the table. “We’ll shoot in a bit,” she muttered, her voice lacking its usual spark. Kunal tried to brush it off, but as the minutes passed, he noticed the cracks—the way her leg bounced nervously, the way she sighed when she thought he wasn’t looking. Finally, when he asked if she was okay, she gave a small, bitter laugh. “Do I look okay?” she said, her eyes tired in a way he had never seen before.
Slowly, the truth spilled out. Sneha confessed that she hated the constant pressure of being “perfect” online, of chasing algorithms that changed without warning, of smiling on bad days just because her followers expected it. “You think this is easy, Kunal? It’s exhausting,” she admitted, staring at the floor. “Every post, every video—it’s all planned, all fake. Half the time, I don’t even know who I really am without the filters.” Her voice cracked as she admitted she often felt lonely, like the thousands of followers were just numbers on a screen, not real friends who cared about her. She spoke about anxiety attacks before uploads, about sleepless nights spent editing, about the fear of becoming irrelevant if she missed even a single trend. Kunal listened in stunned silence, the illusion of influencer glamour crumbling with every word. He had thought she was living a dream, but behind the mask was someone who was just as lost and tired as he was—maybe even more.
For the first time since his journey began, Kunal saw the cost of chasing likes laid bare. Sneha’s vulnerability shook him, not because she was weak, but because she was painfully human beneath the façade. He realized that everything he had been running after—the numbers, the validation, the “cool” crowd—was built on the same fragile mask she wore. And if Sneha, with all her experience and followers, felt trapped by it, what chance did he have of surviving without losing himself completely? As they eventually set up to record, Kunal noticed the transformation: the hoodie came off, the ring light flicked on, and Sneha’s practiced smile returned, like a mask sliding back into place. The performance resumed, polished and seamless, but he couldn’t unsee the truth. On his way home, her words echoed in his mind, louder than the likes on their collab video. For the first time, Kunal wondered if this world he was trying so hard to belong to was really worth it—or if he was simply learning to wear a mask that would one day suffocate him.
Eight
After weeks of chaos—trolls, fake friendships, the fallout with Rhea, and Sneha’s shocking confession—Kunal felt like he was walking through life with a weight chained to his chest. The thrill of followers no longer blinded him; instead, he saw the cracks everywhere, in himself and in others. It was during this low point that he ran into Ananya in the art room after school. She was the kind of classmate who mostly faded into the background: soft-spoken, always sketching in her notebook, her presence quiet but steady. That afternoon, while waiting to pick up some supplies, Kunal found her sitting cross-legged on the floor, painting a mural on a piece of cardboard. The swirls of color caught his eye, but it was her calm focus that struck him most. She looked up, offered him a shy smile, and before he could retreat into his usual defenses, she said softly, “I liked your first video the most. It felt… real.”
Her words lingered, surprising him. Nobody had complimented his “realness” in weeks; most people only talked about his followers or his viral moments. Curious, he asked her what she meant, and Ananya explained in her unhurried way: “That rant—it wasn’t perfect, it wasn’t polished. But it was you. That’s why people shared it. They connected with it.” She admitted she had never told him before, thinking he was too busy with his new circle of friends, but seeing him now, quieter and less sure of himself, gave her the courage. For the first time in ages, someone wasn’t telling Kunal to chase the algorithm or to ignore the hate. Instead, she was reminding him of why he had even picked up the phone to record in the first place—because he had something honest to say. They sat together for a long time, her brush stroking color onto cardboard while he let the silence wrap around him. It wasn’t awkward; it was grounding. Ananya didn’t demand anything from him. She just listened when he spoke, nodded when he stumbled through his feelings, and reminded him gently that he didn’t need to be anyone else but himself.
Over the next few weeks, their friendship grew in the quiet spaces where Kunal found solace. They ate lunch on the school steps, swapped stories about favorite books and art, and even brainstormed video ideas that weren’t about trends but about real-life moments—awkward family dinners, the anxiety before exams, the bittersweetness of growing up. For the first time, creating content didn’t feel like performing; it felt like expressing. With Ananya’s encouragement, Kunal posted a simple video one night, talking honestly about the pressure of being a teenager in a world that demanded perfection. It wasn’t polished, it wasn’t trendy, but it struck a chord. Comments poured in from people saying they related, thanking him for voicing what they couldn’t. The numbers didn’t skyrocket like before, but for once, Kunal didn’t care. What mattered was that it felt right. With Ananya by his side, he began to rebuild his confidence, brick by brick—not on likes, but on authenticity. And slowly, he started to believe that maybe he didn’t need the noise of the crowd to feel seen. Sometimes, the quietest voices had the most lasting impact.
Nine
The more time Kunal spent with Ananya, the clearer his thoughts became. For months, he had been drowning in noise—Kabir’s hype, Sneha’s rules, trolls’ cruelty, and the endless buzz of likes—but in the quiet, he finally began to hear himself again. And what he heard unsettled him: a longing for something simpler, more real. He realized that chasing validation online had cost him the one friendship that mattered most. Rhea’s absence was a dull ache he carried every day, a reminder of the harsh words he had thrown at her when all she had done was try to protect him. One evening, as he stared at his phone screen full of half-written captions and draft videos, he made the decision that terrified him most: he would step away. Not forever, maybe, but long enough to breathe. With trembling fingers, he posted a short note on his story: “Taking a break. Need to figure some things out.” Then he set his phone aside, almost expecting the world to collapse without him in it. Instead, for the first time in weeks, he felt lighter.
The next step was harder—facing Rhea. He found her after school, sitting under the neem tree where they used to wait for their buses together. She glanced up when she saw him, her expression guarded. For a moment, he wanted to turn back, but he forced himself forward. “Rhea,” he began, his voice low, “I messed up.” She didn’t say anything at first, letting the silence stretch until his nerves frayed. Finally, she sighed and shook her head. “You pushed me away, Kunal. I was trying to help, and you made it seem like I was jealous of your fame.” Her words stung because they were true. He swallowed hard and admitted, “I was scared. Scared of losing myself, scared of not being enough without all the noise. And I ended up losing you instead.” His honesty broke through her walls, just a little. Slowly, Rhea’s expression softened, though her voice was still tinged with hurt. “I wasn’t scared of your fame,” she said quietly. “I was scared of losing the real you—the one who didn’t need a hundred strangers’ approval to know he was funny or smart.” That was when it hit him: all this time, he had been chasing strangers’ validation when the people who truly knew him had already seen his worth.
Their reconciliation wasn’t sudden, but it was honest. They sat there for a long while, talking about everything that had gone wrong, about how fame had blurred the lines between performance and reality. Rhea didn’t let him off the hook easily—she reminded him of the times he had ditched her for parties, the moments he had snapped at her, the way he had chosen strangers over their years of friendship. But she also admitted that she had missed him, that it had hurt watching him slip away into a world she couldn’t recognize. By the time the sun dipped low, they had found a fragile but real truce. Walking home, Kunal felt a clarity he hadn’t felt since his first viral rant. He understood now: likes and comments were temporary, fleeting, nothing more than digital applause. Real relationships—like the one he was patching with Rhea—were harder, messier, but infinitely more valuable. As he slipped his phone into his pocket, resisting the urge to check notifications, he realized that maybe fame wasn’t about how many people knew his name. Maybe it was about who still called him a friend when the spotlight went dark.
Ten
On His Terms traces the transformation of Kunal Malhotra from a restless content chaser into a young creator who understands the value of authenticity and personal boundaries. After weeks of reflection, offline adventures, and reconciling with the people he cared about, Kunal steps back into the online world with a new mindset. Gone are the days when every post, video, or meme had to compete for virality or mimic the fleeting trends dominating the feed. Instead, he approaches content as an extension of himself, a way to express what truly resonates with his own experiences and thoughts. His first few posts are simple yet revealing: a humorous rant about the chaos of exam season, a short reflection on friendship, a mini sketch about navigating family expectations. The engagement metrics aren’t astronomical, but he notices something more meaningful—comments that feel personal, messages from followers who relate to his experiences, and shares that carry heartfelt notes rather than just emojis. Kunal realizes that social media, once a source of stress and comparison, can be a platform for genuine expression, provided he stays true to his own voice.
Unlike his previous self, who measured success in numbers, likes, and fleeting popularity, Kunal now measures it in terms of connection and integrity. He deliberately avoids chasing every trending meme or viral challenge, instead focusing on creating content that brings him joy or sparks thoughtful conversations. He experiments with formats, mixing funny sketches with candid reflections about growing up, mental health, and the subtle absurdities of teenage life. His followers may not multiply at the breakneck pace they once did, but he starts noticing the depth of interactions with the people who remain. A follower admits that one of his sketches made them laugh on a day they felt hopeless; another messages him thanking him for normalizing conversations about anxiety. This slow, steady growth contrasts sharply with the previous roller-coaster highs and lows of virality, and Kunal feels a sense of relief and empowerment he had never known before. Through this conscious moderation, he rediscovers the joy of content creation, not as a performance, but as a dialogue, as a shared human experience that values quality over quantity, sincerity over spectacle.
By the end of the chapter, Kunal fully embraces this new phase of his online journey, understanding that being “the hashtag hero” doesn’t require bending to the whims of the algorithm or sacrificing personal happiness for temporary fame. He finds a rhythm that allows him to balance school, friendships, family, and social media without feeling overwhelmed. His identity is no longer entangled with virality; it is defined by his own curiosity, humor, and thoughtfulness. The chapter closes with Kunal drafting a post about a seemingly mundane topic—a day spent helping his grandmother in the kitchen—but he pauses and smiles before hitting “upload.” He knows this post, like every future post, represents him and no one else. The satisfaction isn’t in going viral or trending, but in speaking his truth, connecting authentically, and reclaiming his online space on his own terms. In this way, Kunal Malhotra’s story culminates not in fame, but in the quieter, more enduring triumph of self-realization and intentional living in a world that constantly tempts him with noise, distraction, and imitation.
-*-
