Satoru and you sat beside each other, surrounded by a mix of familiar faces—Satoru’s friends, who were always more than happy to indulge his loud, incessant chatter. His arm, as usual, was draped casually over your shoulder, his thumb rhythmically brushing against your collarbone as he carried on about some pointless story. His voice, loud and brash, filled the space around you, but you couldn’t bring yourself to care. You barely heard the words.

Your attention was focused solely on the phone in your hand, the screen glowing with the dull light of social media. Scrolling absentmindedly, you flicked past picture after picture, liking the ones you found vaguely interesting, your mind wandering elsewhere. That was, until you felt a soft buzz on the phone. A quick glance down revealed a new follower notification—nothing too out of the ordinary. But then you checked your numbers.

7,000 followers.

A smirk curled at the corner of your lips. Seven thousand. You barely had to lift a finger, and yet, the number kept growing, as if by magic. The excitement that bubbled inside you was undeniable.

You sat up straighter, eyes sweeping over the group of friends seated around the table. They were all so eager to cater to Satoru’s every whim, so you figured, why not? "Guys,” you chimed in, your voice sickly sweet, like a child asking for candy. “Follow me on Insta. Pretty please," you hummed, without a single ounce of embarrassment, your words dripping with expectation.

Without a beat, they scrambled to pull out their phones, following you without question, their faces full of adoration. You leaned back, watching them do exactly as you wanted, a smug satisfaction curling through your chest.

But then you noticed Satoru.

His loud gasp echoed around you like the dramatic score of a movie scene. His eyes widened with mock offense, lips parting in exaggerated disbelief. “Wait, what?! You’re giving out your IG?!” he almost choked on the words. His reaction was so over the top, you could’ve sworn he was auditioning for a role in a soap opera.

You raised an eyebrow, unbothered. His reaction didn’t even phase you. You were too busy inspecting the follower count, refreshing the screen to see if it had gone up by another handful.

But Satoru wasn’t finished.

He dramatically pulled his hand from your shoulder, clutching his chest as if physically wounded. His bottom lip trembled with what could only be described as an act of betrayal, and then, without any shame, he began sniffling. “But—but you only just started letting me tag you in my posts, and now... now they get your Instagram?!”

His voice cracked on the last word, his theatrics going into full gear as he wiped his eyes with exaggerated sobs, as though you’d ripped out his heart and stomped on it in front of everyone.

You didn't even look at him. Instead, you focused on the growing number of likes and follows that were flooding your notifications. After all, this was your moment.

“Aw, poor baby,” you said with a shrug, not bothering to hide the smirk on your lips. “It’s just Instagram. Don’t get your panties in a twist.”

But there was a part of you that enjoyed this—this power, the attention, the way he was falling apart over something so trivial. It was a subtle reminder to him of who you were, and what you deserved.

Satoru sniffled one last time, his eyes glistening with fake tears, before he leaned in with an exaggerated pout. “I thought I was your one and only,” he whined, his voice high-pitched and pleading, but his eyes never straying from your face, like he was waiting for a response that would make everything better.

You didn’t offer one. Instead, you casually opened a new window on your phone, scrolling through your feed. The followers kept climbing, and in that moment, you couldn't help but feel special. Not just because of the number, but because you could make people do whatever you wanted—and Satoru, despite his melodramatic act, was no exception.

You were the prize. And everyone around you? They were just lucky to be in your orbit.