The Fifth Floor Without Light

Episode 1: Social Media Is a Foggy Mirror

By Nguyen An

“Every time I look into it, I see myself—or someone I’m trying to become.”

— Journal Entry, September 5th.

The classroom light flickered again.

I’d grown used to it—the hum, the hesitation, the sputtering glow that couldn’t decide whether it wanted to exist. It was annoying at first, then oddly comforting. Like something broken that still keeps trying.

Kind of like me.

My classmates chatted and laughed in little groups. The sound of rustling papers, a few desks being dragged half a foot, someone tapping their pen like a song no one else could hear. The late afternoon sun slipped through the blinds, cutting the classroom into stripes of light and shade.

Down beneath my desk, my phone buzzed.

Trinh Duong Lam had posted again.

I didn’t even have to open the notification. I knew what it would be—probably another dreamy, carefully filtered image with a caption just vague enough to feel universal.

But I opened it anyway. Habit. Weakness.

She was smiling in the photo. Hair swept over her left eye, just slightly. Her mouth curved upward at the corners, but the smile didn’t quite reach her eyes. Still, to anyone else, she looked radiant—whole. Happy.

The caption said:

“I’m fine. Don’t worry 💛”

I stared at it for a long moment, thumb hovering over the reaction buttons.

I didn’t press any.

I never do.

Because I wrote that line.

There was something surreal about seeing your own words wear someone else’s face.

I still remember when Lam first asked me to help.

Back when her account had maybe three hundred followers, mostly classmates and cousins. She wanted to “sound deeper,” she said.

I didn’t know what that meant.

She showed me a few samples. I laughed. Then rewrote them for her.

The first post I wrote for her went semi-viral. The next one did better. Within a month, she had over 2,000 followers. Then came the breakup video, the aesthetic vlogs, the brand collabs.

Now? She was a micro-influencer with a “personal brand.”

And I was the brand’s ghost.

“Yo, you in your notebook again?” Minh Vu leaned toward me, voice lowered, eyes darting to the teacher’s desk.

“Yeah.”

“What is it this time? A poem? Another tragic monologue?”

“Just thoughts.”

“You’re wasting it, you know. That brain of yours.”

I smiled without looking up.

Minh Vu was one of the only people who talked to me like I was human. Not invisible, not mysterious, not “that quiet kid.” He didn’t read what I wrote, but he respected that I did.

“I’m not wasting it,” I said.

“Prove it. Submit to that school lit contest.”

“Not interested.”

“Because you’d have to sign your name?”

I didn’t answer.

Because yes.

I hated signing my name.

Not because I wasn’t proud—but because I wasn’t ready to be seen. Not really.

With Lam, it was easy. I wrote, she posted, people reacted.

There was safety in anonymity.

And a strange ache too.

Like watching someone else wear your clothes in front of the mirror while you stood behind the glass, n***d.

During literature class, Ms. Uyen stood in front of the board with her usual quiet energy.

She was in her thirties, still young compared to most teachers, and always dressed simply but deliberately—white shirts, dark skirts, and the occasional black ribbon in her hair.

Today, she posed a question:

“What makes a sentence powerful?”

The room stilled a little. Some kids shrugged. A few scrolled on their phones.

I raised my hand. Not high—just enough for her to notice.

“Honesty,” I said. “A sentence is powerful when it’s honest.”

She looked at me. Really looked. Like she’d been waiting for that answer.

“Exactly,” she said. “We don’t fall in love with beauty. We fall in love with truth dressed in the right words.”

Later that day, I passed Lam in the hallway.

She was surrounded, as usual. Two girls from the media club flanked her, both holding iced coffee. She was laughing at something, maybe not even sincerely.

Our eyes met for a second. Just one.

But in that second, something flickered. Recognition? Regret? I couldn’t tell.

She looked away first.

And I kept walking.

When I got home, I shut my door and lay on the bed without turning on the lights. I liked the shadows better. They were quieter. Less demanding.

I scrolled through Lam’s profile. Her latest reel was performing well. Almost 7,000 views in an hour. Her voice narrating lines I’d written.

Lines I remembered sweating over.

Lines that had come from something real inside me.

And now they were out there. Detached. Branded. Aesthetic.

They belonged to her now. Or maybe they belonged to no one.

Around 9:13 PM, I received a message from an unknown number:

“I know your secret. Stop pretending.”

At first I thought it was spam. But the timing—it felt too precise.

The use of the word “pretending.”

Pretending what?

That I didn’t care? That I was okay with being a shadow? That this wasn’t hurting me?

My stomach twisted. I locked my phone and placed it screen-down.

I knew someone had seen through me.

And maybe, in a strange way, I’d been hoping someone would.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. My ceiling fan spun in slow motion.

I kept replaying memories in my head—small, silent ones.

Lam leaning over my notebook during lunch, her hair brushing my arm.

The way she used to read my lines out loud, mouthing the words like they tasted like secrets.

That day on the fifth floor, when she cried, and I sat beside her without saying a word.

I wondered if she remembered any of it.

I wondered if she missed the version of herself that wasn’t curated.

And I wondered if, someday, I’d be brave enough to stop hiding in someone else’s voice…

and speak with my own.

To be continued…