My pulse quickens.
I don’t understand what I’m seeing at first. I only know that there’s an excerpt from my personal essay—the essay I proofread at least three times, posted only yesterday—and my own name and … theBuzzFeed logoabove it all. The same BuzzFeed I used to spend hours scrolling through with Zoe, taking quizzes to find out which party snack we resembled.None of it makes sense. I have no idea how or why BuzzFeed even has my writing.
It’s like coming across a photo of yourself in someone else’s house, this jarring combination of “hey, this looks familiar” and “what the hell is this doing here?” It feels like I’m dreaming.
But oh god—there’s more. So much more.
Apparently my essay was already spreading last night, but when someone semi-famous tweeted a screenshot and a link to my post on the school blog, it all blew up. I quickly secure my VPN and head over to Twitter, and my heart almost falls out of my chest.
Last night, I had a grand total of five followers on my lurking-only Twitter account, and I’m pretty sure two of them were bots.
Now I already have more than ten thousand followers.
“Holy fucking shit indeed,” I mutter, and the sound of my own voice, low and slightly scratchy with disuse, only makes it all more surreal. None of it makes sense. It doesn’t make sense that I could be sitting here on my bed, the light of my phone illuminating my plain bedroom walls, while this tweet a bunch of people have so thoughtfully tagged me in has gottenhalf a million likesand counting.
My hands are shaking as I scroll through some of the recent comments.
@alltoowell13:maybe guys do deserve rights after all???
@jiminswife:I’m actually crying omg this is SO. CUTE. (pls feed us more quality content my soul needs it) ((if they ever break up i swear i’ll stop believing in love))
@angelica_b_smith:Lmao how are teens these days writing Shakespeare-level essays abt the love of their life … like when i was that age i couldn’t even string together a full sentence
@drunklanwangji:not to be dramatic or anything but i would literally die for them to just stay together and hold hands and be happy forever.
@user387:pLEASE someone make this into a movie i am BEGGING—
@echoooli:Am I the only one hella curious about who the boyfriend is? (and where can I find one??)
I drop my phone before I can read any more, an unsettling mix of panic and euphoria shooting through my veins.
So.
This is ridiculous.
My brain feels like it’s glitching. Overheating. People across the world are reading my essay and imagining me cuddlingwith some guy on his couch, kissinghim on a balcony, whispering things likeI miss you even when you’re close to meandYou’re so beautiful sometimes I can’t even think straight around you.
People have read it … and actuallylikedit. My words, my writing, my thoughts. Recognized some piece of themselves in it. Despite my embarrassment, I can’t stop the smile from spreading across my face.Is this what it’s like to be a celebrity?I can’t help wondering briefly, through my utter disbelief.Is this how someone like Caz Song feels all the time?
But no—I catch myself. All this, as exciting as it is, isn’t the point. Because going viral just for my writing would be one thing—a good thing, even, the stuff of modern-day fairy tales. But going viral for a “wholesome real-life love story” (@therealcarrielo’s words, not mine) that’s actually completely fictional is another.
I can just picture how the next BuzzFeed article would look if the truth gets out:“A Criminal in the Making: This Girl’s Viral Personal Essay about Her Love Life Turns Out to Be a Total Lie.”
Over the next hour or so, while the rest of the apartment stirs and the bathroom taps creak and Ma shuffles into the kitchen to turn the soy milk machine on, this is all I can think about. The BuzzFeed heading. The comments. How invested people already seem to be, how many have followed me for “updates” that I don’t have …
Guilt soon worms its way into my chest and I want to scream.
But by some miracle, or maybe years of practice, I manage to act like everything’s fine at breakfast. It just doesn’t feel right to blurt out something likeOh, by the way, I may have treated my personal essay assignment as a creative writing exercise and it somehow went viral and now over a million people think I’ve met the love of my life in Beijing, when it isn’t even eight o’clock in the morning yet. So I drink my homemade soy milk and eat my tea egg and try not to think about the fact that my life may have irrevocably changed over the course of one night.
“… is killing me,” Ma is saying as she cracks her egg on a bowl, the shell breaking apart with a satisfying crunch. “It’s an absolute disaster.”
I don’t even have to pay full attention to know exactly who she’s talking about: Kevin from marketing. Some recent Harvard graduate with a genius IQ and, according to Ma, zero common sense.
“Sorry—what’s an absolute disaster?” I ask, hoping she’ll elaborate. Some disaster-management tips would definitely come in handy right now.
“My life,” Emily volunteers from the other end of the dining table. Her school uniform’s on backward, and her shoulder-length jet-black hair has been tied into what I suspectshouldbe a ponytail but looks more like a bean sprout instead. Clearly, Ba’s been put in charge of helping Emily get ready today.
Ma rolls her eyes. “Save that attitude for your mid-forties,” she chides Emily, then turns back to me. “And since when are you so interested in my work life?”
