First Meet

Another lonely, sad day. Another day full of empty smiles and hollow words.

I needed a place where people would like me for who I was, not just because I was pretty. The weight of it all became too much, and I broke down in my room, crying. No one in my life felt real, and there was no one I could truly rely on. I felt completely alone.

To cope, I usually poured my emotions into writing or composing songs, letting the words and melodies speak the feelings I couldn’t. Suddenly, an idea struck me. What if I created an Instagram account to release my covers? I could share my music without revealing my face, ensuring that people would notice me for my talent and not just for how I looked. I wanted to be heard for who I really was.

Excitement bubbled up inside me. I created the account, using my favorite idol's face as a claim and a new name that felt safe. For the first time in a long while, I felt hopeful. Maybe now, people would listen to me and befriend me because of my music, not because of my appearance. Maybe I could finally be like everyone else.

I uploaded my first reel: a cover of "You Dian Tian." I wasn't expecting much, but in an instant, it reached 1,000 views. People flooded in, liking and commenting on my voice. The compliments were real. For the first time, I felt genuinely seen.

That night, I went to bed happier than I had been in a long time. When I woke up the next morning, I felt like a new person. I stood taller, ready to face the world. As I got dressed for school, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something inside me had shifted. I was no longer invisible. I had finally found a way to stand up for myself, and I was happy.

The next few weeks flew by in a blur of music, recording, and the slow, steady growth of my Instagram account. Every night, I would sit in my room with my mic and laptop, pouring my heart into every cover I posted. Each time I hit "upload," I felt a little less alone.

The comments kept coming—people praising my voice, asking for more songs, even sharing their own stories of how music had helped them through tough times. I could feel something changing in me. I wasn’t just singing anymore. I was connecting.

And that’s all I really wanted. I didn’t need fame or attention for my looks. I just wanted to find people who cared about the same things I did, people who would listen to my music and maybe, just maybe, become real friends.

One evening, as I was scrolling through my messages, I saw something different. A girl around my age had sent me a long message:

"Hi Hana, I just wanted to say your cover of 'You Dian Tian' really spoke to me. I’ve been going through a rough time, and hearing your voice makes me feel less alone. Thank you for sharing your music. Do you ever want to chat? I’m always looking for more people who love music as much as I do!"

My heart skipped a beat. This was what I had been hoping for. Someone who wanted to talk, not because of what I looked like, but because of my music.

I quickly typed out a response:

"Thank you so much for your kind words! I’d love to chat sometime. Music has always been my way of dealing with things too. Let’s talk!"

It felt surreal, this small exchange with a stranger who, in a way, felt like a friend. I kept replaying it in my head, wondering if this was the start of something real.

The next day at school, I felt a shift. I still walked the halls like any other day, but I wasn’t so invisible anymore—not to myself. I knew that out there, beyond the walls of this school, people were starting to recognize me for something that was mine alone: my voice. And even though no one here knew the truth, it gave me a quiet confidence.

Later that evening, I got another message from the same boy. His name was Zhi Hao, and as we talked more, I learned that she was also into covers, but he didn’t have the confidence to post them yet. He shared with me how scared he was of being judged, and I understood completely. We bonded over our love of music and our desire to be ourselves without fear.

Over time, I started getting similar messages from others—people who loved the same songs I did, people who were struggling, just like me, to find their place. It was strange, but through this anonymous online world, I was beginning to feel less alone than I had in real life.

But even as I grew more comfortable online, the pressure to reveal myself began to build. Some of my followers started asking, “Who are you really?” or “When will you show your face?” I couldn’t blame them. Everyone else was out there, putting themselves on display, and here I was, hiding behind someone else’s face.

Hao asked me once during one of our late-night chats:

“Why don’t you just show yourself? I’m sure people would love you even more if they knew who you were.”

I hesitated, staring at the message for a while before replying:

"I don’t know... I guess I’m scared that if they see me, they won’t care about my music anymore."

It was the truth. Deep down, I still worried that people would see me the same way they did at school—just another pretty face, or worse, that they’d see right through me, back to the lonely girl who never quite fit in. I wanted them to know the real me first.

Hao’s reply was thoughtful:

“I get that. But one day, when you’re ready, I hope you do. The people who love your music will stick around, no matter what.”

His words stuck with me, but I wasn’t ready to take that step yet. For now, being "Hana" was enough. I was making friends through my music, real friends, and that was more than I ever thought I’d have.

As the weeks went on, I continued posting, chatting with new followers, and slowly, quietly, building a community. It wasn’t the glamorous life of a famous singer or idol, but it was mine. And for the first time in a long time, that felt like enough.

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