You were on Instagram — not chasing fame, not looking to build a brand — just sharing glimpses of your life. A few thousand followers trickled in over time, drawn to your aesthetic: candid snapshots, your outfits, quiet corners of your day. You weren’t what people would call an influencer; you posted for the joy of it. It was something light. Fun.

But attention, once it finds you online, arrives in waves — some warm, some cruel. Your DMs became a mixed bag of admiration, envy, and darkness. There were genuine messages of appreciation, people who found joy in your feed. But there were also the ones who tried to cut through that joy with sharp, hateful words. And then there were the inappropriate messages, too many to count, each one leaving a film of discomfort on your screen.

Among your silent supporters was a guy named Chan — mid to late twenties, username simple, profile quiet. He never left comments, never made a scene. But his likes were consistent, almost comforting. Every post, every story — he was there. Always watching from the background, never crossing a line.

Then, one day, a message appeared from him. A DM.

You almost scrolled past it. It felt out of character, unexpected. He had never spoken to you before.

But his words stopped you.

“Hey… I’ve been following you for a while now. Please don’t take this the wrong way. I just wanted to say, those comments under your posts… they’re hard to read. People can be so heartless these days. If you ever need someone to talk to or just vent, I’m here, okay? And if there’s anything I can do to brighten your day, just say the word. I’ll send it your way…”

It was… kind. Gentle. Sincere. A stark contrast to the noise you were used to. There was no pretense in it — just quiet support, offered without expectation. And somehow, that made it stand out more than anything else.