“I’m just praying to reach 80K on Twitter, and everything will be alright!”
My friend said this with the desperation of a man waiting for the results of a medical examination.
He was sitting on the edge of my desk at the office, scrolling endlessly through his phone, refreshing his notifications every few seconds.
(Twitter, by the way. I will never call it X. I have already accepted enough changes in my life.)
“Seventy-nine thousand, six hundred and twelve,” he announced.
“Congratulations,” I said. “Only 388 people between you and inner peace.”
He had posted something that morning, and it had received only 43 likes in three hours. It was a national tragedy, judging by his expression.
“The algorithm is killing me, Adnan.”
I nodded sympathetically. I had no idea what he had posted, but I assumed it was another opinion on a subject he had discovered approximately fifteen minutes earlier.
He had continued talking about impressions, engagement, reach, and shadow banning. I was trying to finish an email, but he had already appointed me as his unpaid social media advisor.
As I watched him refresh his notifications for the seventh time, a very specific memory came back to me.
The memory of a girl who had once been my friend and then became a public figure… at least in her own biography.
We had known each other since childhood.
The kind of friendship that existed long before Instagram. We grew up in the same neighborhood, knew each other’s families, shared mutual friends, and witnessed each other during years we would both prefer to forget.
She knew me before I had a beard.
I knew her before she had an aesthetic.
Then she moved abroad.
At first, everything was normal. Pictures of coffee, streets, different scenery, and the occasional caption about how moving to another country had changed her perspective on life.
Apparently, living somewhere with reliable public transportation can do that to a person.
Then, her Instagram account started growing and she started to talk to her “followers.”
Five thousand followers, ten thousand, and finally twenty thousand.
Twenty thousand people.
A population large enough for her to declare independence.
One evening, I was scrolling through Instagram when I came across her story as she was thanking everyone for helping her reach 20K.`
“I honestly can’t believe we’re 20K now! Thank you all for being part of this beautiful journey. Love you guys so much!”
I watched her story and felt absolutely nothing… well, almost nothing.
Something about it made me curious enough to visit her profile.
Perhaps it was intuition, or the fact that Instagram had stopped showing me her posts. Or perhaps, after knowing someone for most of your life, you develop a sixth sense for when they decide you’re no longer good enough to occupy a small corner of their internet.
I clicked on her following list and she was following eighteen people.
Out of twenty thousand who followed her, only eighteen had apparently earned the privilege of being followed back.
I was not one of them.
Interesting.
I searched for my name … nothing.
Then my sibling’s names… nothing.
A few of our mutual childhood friends… also nothing.
It was an impressive operation. She had unfollowed an entire section of her personal history.
Somewhere between her fifteenth and twentieth thousand followers, she had apparently hired an imaginary public relations team that advised her to distance herself from the general population.
And we were the general population!
Of course! I understood the strategy now.
Following only eighteen people makes you look important, mysterious and exclusive.
I looked at her profile again – Twenty thousand followers. Following: Eighteen.
A beautiful ratio.
A little less beautiful when you remember that one of the people she unfollowed had once helped her carry her schoolbag home.
But that’s life. Right? People change. People discover the unfollow button.
The truth is, I didn’t care about losing a follower. I don’t even know how many followers I have most of the time.
What bothered me was how easily she had turned years of knowing someone into something disposable.
One day, you’re part of someone’s childhood. Next, you’re damaging their follower-to-following ratio.
It’s almost impressive how social media has given people a new way to erase others without having to explain themselves.
“Adnan, are you listening?”
My friend was still sitting on my desk, looking deeply offended by his phone.
“Yes.”
“I swear, once I hit 80K, I’m going to start taking this more seriously.”
I stared at him.
More seriously?
He had 79,612 followers and still managed to wake up every morning feeling personally rejected by the internet.
“What happens when you reach 80k? Will your rent suddenly become inexpensive? Will your blood pressure improve? Will someone give you a medal?” I asked.
He looked annoyed.
“You don’t understand… It’s about building a platform.”
Of course. A platform.
Everyone has a platform now.
I wanted to say something but I knew better than to interfere with a celebrity’s personal crisis.
He eventually got up from my desk, announcing that he needed to post something before the engagement window closed.
I wished him luck and he thanked me with the seriousness of someone leaving for war.
As he walked away, I thought about my childhood friend.
About how strange it is that people could accumulate entire crowds of strangers and still spend their days obsessing over the few who weren’t applauding.
“Fame” convinces them that everyone is watching, everyone is jealous, and everyone who isn’t following them must have a personal problem
I went back to my email.
A few minutes later, I checked my Twitter as I saw my colleague had posted again.
“Never let numbers define your worth.”
I stared at it for a moment then I liked it. Not because I want to, but because I didn’t want to be accused of jealousy.
And because I knew that somewhere, a man with 79,612 followers was waiting for my approval.
