The cursor blinked against a black screen.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
Akin stared at the unfinished post, elbows resting on the desk, one hand supporting his chin. The room was dark except for the cold glow of his laptop. Outside his bedroom window, the city of Bangkok was still awake.
Motorbikes passed below.
A dog barked somewhere in the distance.
Rain tapped softly against the metal railing outside.
He reread the text for what was probably the tenth time.
Not because he doubted the words.
Because precision mattered.
If he was going to do this, it had to attract the right people.
Not attention-seekers.
Not curious teenagers looking for drama.
Not people who still secretly believed life would get better if someone just hugged them long enough.
No.
This was for a different kind of person.
The quiet kind.
The tired kind.
The kind who had already rehearsed their absence in their head.
He adjusted one final sentence, then leaned back.
On the screen was a single image.
A starless sky.
No moon.
No visible horizon.
Just darkness.
Underneath it, the caption waited.
The Starlight Society
Tired of looking at the stars and seeing nothing but darkness?
Feeling like you're drifting alone in a cold, silent sky?
We are a society for those who have seen the emptiness of the universe.
We don't promise to give you light.
We only promise to sit with you in the dark.
No judgment. No lies. Only understanding.
Join us.
Simple.
Clean.
Just enough poetry to feel intentional.
Just enough honesty to feel dangerous.
Akin hovered his cursor over the button.
For a moment, he paused.
Not because he was nervous.
Nervous implied uncertainty.
This wasn't uncertainty.
This was architecture.
Careful construction.
A structure built from inevitability.
He clicked.
Post published.
The screen refreshed.
And suddenly, it was out there.
No taking it back.
No editing reality once it had already entered circulation.
Akin closed the laptop halfway and stood from his chair.
His room was neat.
Painfully neat.
School books stacked by subject.
Pens aligned.
Uniform hanging behind the door.
A version of himself organized enough to suggest functionality.
It was almost funny.
Anyone looking at this room would assume he had his life together.
Appearances were generous liars.
His phone buzzed.
He looked at it.
Too soon.
A notification.
Someone had liked the post.
Akin frowned slightly.
Irrelevant.
Likes meant nothing.
He muted the notification and placed the phone face down.
Then another vibration.
And another.
Not likes this time.
Messages.
He picked the phone up again.
Three unread requests.
He opened the first.
A long message.
Paragraphs.
Too emotional.
Too frantic.
He skimmed it quickly.
Academic pressure. Expectations. Failure. Exhaustion.
Predictable.
Second message.
Much shorter.
Angrier.
Bullying. Humiliation. Rage.
Also predictable.
Third message.
Akin tapped it open.
And paused.
No words.
No profile picture.
No bio.
Just one message.
⭐
A single star.
Nothing else.
Akin stared at it.
No explanation.
No dramatic introduction.
No attempt to sound profound.
Just a star.
For some reason, that unsettled him more than the paragraphs had.
His thumb hovered over the screen.
He almost ignored it.
Then he opened the chat.
Typed.
Deleted.
Retyped.
Finally, he sent one message.
Friday. 9:00 PM. Old gym storage room.
A second message followed.
Look for the lost trophies.
He locked his phone.
Set it down.
And sat there for a while in the quiet.
Rain continued outside.
Steady.
Unbothered.
The city kept moving.
Cars.
Lights.
People buying late-night food from convenience stores.
Students cramming for exams.
Families finishing dinner.
All of life continuing with irritating normalcy.
And somewhere inside that moving city, strangers were reading his post.
Recognizing themselves inside it.
Choosing to answer.
Akin leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes.
The net had been cast.
Now all that was left was to see what it pulled in.