Kana sat on her hospital bed, the soft hum of the air conditioner above barely noticeable over the sound of her own thoughts. In her hands rested the brand-new iNOVA 19 Pro Max—a device that sparkled under the room's fluorescent lighting like a treasure from another world.
It was a technological marvel—boasting a 6.8-inch OLED screen with HDR10+ support, 12GB of RAM, and a whopping 512GB of internal storage. No need for an SD card. The 5,500mAh battery could last for days and supported both wired and wireless fast-charging. The phone was sleek, modern, and impossibly advanced. People on the outside would line up overnight just for a chance to buy it. Yet, somehow, it was now hers. A birthday gift. From someone who actually cared.
She ran her fingers across the box one more time before gently lifting the phone from its snug casing. As she did, a small note, folded twice, slipped out from underneath and floated onto her lap. Curious, she picked it up. The handwriting was familiar—clean, slightly slanted, and written with care.
It was from Dr. Kennedy.
"Second surprise!!! The phone is already connected to the hospital's WiFi. It should help you connect & reach out to people online now. Well… that's all from me. Good luck!! And Happy Birthday!!!!"
Kana's lips curled into a faint smile. There was something about Kennedy's enthusiasm—so genuine, so intentional—that warmed her in ways she wasn't used to. The gift itself was already overwhelming, but the gesture behind it... it meant even more.
Kana: (softly) I need to thank Dr. Kennedy again… properly this time.
For four years, he had stood by her side—quietly, consistently. He never made promises he couldn't keep. He never pitied her. He never made her feel like a burden, even though, deep down, Kana had always feared that she was.
He had paid for her treatments, offered her company on the loneliest of days, and now—he had given her a lifeline to the outside world. A chance to feel human again. A chance to be heard.
"Give people a reason to remember you when your time comes."
The words echoed in her mind like a bell tolling in a distant chapel. The phone in her lap no longer felt like just a piece of metal and glass—it felt like a key. A key to something more.
Kana sat up straighter and powered the phone on. The sleek device lit up instantly, the vibrant colors of the welcome screen nearly blinding after so many years of looking at hospital monitors. It felt surreal. She had seen the commercials on TV in the patient lounge. Back then, it was like watching a dream through a window. Now, that dream was in her hands.
The phone's interface was smooth and responsive. Curious, Kana opened the camera app first. She raised the phone, framed herself in the screen, and snapped a selfie.
The result was stunning. The detail was sharp, the lighting balanced—everything looked professional. But when she stared at the image a moment longer, her smile faded.
There she was, wearing her faded pink hospital pajamas. The same ones she wore every day.
Kana: (sighs) It's not like I have anything else to wear…
Still, the quality of the photo fascinated her. For the next hour, she wandered around her small hospital room, snapping pictures of everything—the bed, the IV stand, her window view, even the cracks in the ceiling tiles. Every click of the shutter was a tiny act of reclaiming her joy.
Then, without warning, her eyes drifted to the row of apps already installed. One app was missing—but only for a moment.
Twibbler.
The name alone gave her pause. Twibbler was the most widely used social media platform in the world. People posted photos, short messages, updates, jokes, hot takes, and even rants. It was also notorious for its trolls and cancel culture. Still, despite the negativity, it was a place where people connected—where they could be seen and heard.
Kana's finger hovered over the app store. Her heartbeat picked up. Then, she tapped "Download."
It was time.
Once the app was installed, she opened it and began the process of setting up her profile. The interface was bright, cheerful, and user-friendly—almost mockingly so. She typed slowly, cautiously, reading every word twice before continuing.
Then came the prompt:
> Choose a username.
Kana hesitated.
Should she use her real name? Did she want people to know who she was?
No. Not yet. She wasn't ready. Revealing her identity would mean opening herself to judgment, questions, and maybe even pity. She wanted to be known—not for her illness, but for her thoughts, her voice, and who she was inside.
So, she picked a name that felt honest.
A name that reflected how she felt, even if she couldn't say it out loud:
Lonelygirl4556
It wasn't flashy. It wasn't clever.
But it was her.
Kana stared at the screen for a while after the confirmation message popped up.
"Welcome to Twibbler, Lonelygirl4556!"
She was in.
*****
In just four days, Kana had seen enough on Twibbler to understand how things worked.
First off, almost no one used their real names—unless you were some kind of A-list celebrity like Justin Beevar. Everyone else hid behind strange usernames and profile pictures that had nothing to do with their actual identities. And why wouldn't they? People could say the most horrible, unfiltered things online with zero consequences. As long as you didn't post your real name or pictures, you could disappear into the crowd without a trace.
Secondly, Kana noticed a clear pattern—if you posted something relatable, emotional, or bold enough, there was a good chance it could go viral. People on Twibbler weren't necessarily looking for perfect grammar or polished aesthetics. They were searching for something to feel. Whether it made them laugh, cry, or scream into the void, if your post hit the right nerve at the right time, you were golden.
In just four days, Kana had gained 10 followers—people she'd never met and knew nothing about. All she had done so far was share a few posts introducing herself, talking a little about her life in the hospital, and dropping vague hints about her health situation. Nothing special. Nothing viral. But for her, those 10 followers felt like 10 new lifelines—proof that someone out there cared enough to read her words.
Lastly, and maybe most importantly, she realized one bitter truth:
No matter how good something is, there will always be people who hate it.
She had seen that firsthand just yesterday. Some guy had posted a photo of himself and his fiancée after proposing to her. Their matching silver rings were displayed proudly in the photo, and the caption radiated joy and excitement for the life ahead. The post exploded with likes and comments. Hundreds of people congratulated him—but it didn't take long before the negativity seeped in.
Strangers started mocking his looks, calling the rings "cheap," even accusing the fiancée of being "too pretty to settle." Some implied it was staged for attention. Others simply left cruel jokes. The poor guy ended up deleting the post—and then his entire account.
Kana: (thinking) If something that pure could be torn apart like that… what happens if I ever go viral?
The thought lingered in her mind like a shadow. But as scary as it was, she knew she couldn't let fear silence her.
Kana: (muttering) What kind of content should I even post? What would people care about?
It was a question that had plagued her since the moment she installed Twibbler. She wanted to be seen—really seen—but wasn't sure how to begin.
She sat cross-legged on her hospital bed, fingers resting on her phone, lost in thought. Before she could spiral any further, the hospital room door creaked open.
Jane, one of the nurses, stepped in with a gentle smile, holding a tray of food.
Jane: Kana, your lunch is here.
The moment she saw Jane, guilt clenched tightly around Kana's heart. A few days ago, she had snapped at her—lashed out in frustration during a moment of emotional chaos. It wasn't like her. And ever since, Jane hadn't come by. Kana had been too afraid to ask anyone why.
Now, unable to meet her gaze, Kana kept her eyes low even as Jane set the tray down beside her.
Jane: (softly) What's wrong, Kana?
Kana: (nervously) M…Ms. Jane. (scratches her head) I'm really sorry about how I spoke to you the other day. I wasn't myself. That day… it just hit differently.
Jane smiled, her expression kind and forgiving.
Jane: It was your birthday, wasn't it?
Kana blinked in surprise.
Kana: Wait—how did you know that?
Jane: (chuckling) It's on your medical file. And Dr. Kennedy told me. He said it was an emotional day for you, and to give you some space. So… it's okay. I'm not upset.
Relief flooded Kana's chest, but one nagging thought remained.
Kana: Then… why haven't I seen you? Did you avoid me because of it?
Jane paused, a brief look of confusion crossing her face before she burst into laughter.
Jane: Avoid you? Oh no, sweetie—I had to take emergency leave. My mom's been sick, and I needed to care for her for a few days.
Kana's face turned red with embarrassment.
Kana: (cartoonishly grimacing) Oh. I—I thought it was because of me...
Jane laughed even harder now, holding her stomach.
Kana: Hey!! Quit laughing!! It's not funny!!!
Jane: (wiping a tear) "Oh, it's hilarious. The way your face looked—priceless!"
Flushed and flustered, Kana snatched the pillow beside her and hurled it at Jane. She dodged it with ease, grinning.
But when she bent to pick it up, Kana grabbed another one and threw it, this time nailing her square in the face.
Kana: (grinning triumphantly) Yesss! That one hit you right on the nose!
Jane: (smirking) Ohhh, it's on now.
She grabbed a pillow of her own, raising it like a weapon.
Jane: You really wanna do this, huh? I was queen of pillow fights back in high school. I once knocked out a girl's fake eyelash mid-air.
Kana: (laughing) Well, you've never battled me! Let's go, pillow queen!
What started as a joke quickly turned into a full-on pillow war. The sterile, quiet hospital room erupted with laughter, feathers flying as the two of them launched soft attacks at each other. For the first time in a long while, Kana felt… normal. Alive.
Neither of them noticed the silent figure standing at the door.
Dr. Kennedy, arms crossed and a smile tugging at his lips, watched them quietly from the hallway.
Seeing Kana like this—laughing, smiling, being a teenager again—was all he had ever wanted.
With a soft nod to himself, he turned and walked away, leaving her to the moment of joy she so deeply deserved.