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The first hater didn't come with insults.
That's what surprised me.
He didn't scream. He didn't curse. He didn't sound emotional at all.
He sounded… reasonable.
I noticed the comment late at night, buried between praise and curiosity.
"She's pretty, but that's it."
I stared at the screen.
Not angry. Not defensive.
Just dismissive.
I scrolled.
"The song is average. People are overhyping her because of her face.""Another pretty girl trying to sing. Nothing special."
Yueyin was asleep in the next room.
I didn't wake her.
Not yet.
This was important.
Hate didn't appear when you were irrelevant.
It appeared when someone felt threatened—or annoyed—that you existed.
I clicked on the profile.
Anonymous. No videos. No real name.
But the account followed several indie singers.
Interesting.
This wasn't a troll.
This was someone who cared.
The next morning, Yueyin found the comments herself.
She always did.
She sat on the couch, phone clenched in both hands, eyes scanning too fast.
"…Brother."
I looked up from my coffee. "Yes?"
"Why are people saying I'm only popular because I'm pretty?"
I waited.
Didn't rush to comfort her.
Didn't deny it either.
"Because," I said carefully, "beauty is visible. Effort isn't."
She frowned. "So they're right?"
"They're incomplete."
She didn't like that answer.
Her jaw tightened. "I practiced for hours. I sang until my throat hurt."
"I know."
"Then why does it feel like they're erasing that?"
Because that's what the industry does, I thought.
But I didn't say it.
By afternoon, the comments multiplied.
Not many.
Just enough.
Some people argued back.
Some agreed.
A small fracture formed under the video.
Yueyin refreshed the page obsessively.
"They don't even know me," she muttered. "Why do they get to decide?"
I closed her phone gently.
"They don't," I said. "But they will try."
She looked up at me. "What do I do?"
This was the moment.
The first fork in the road.
If she responded emotionally, she'd look weak.
If she ignored it completely, it would fester.
"Nothing," I said. "Today."
Her eyes widened. "Nothing?"
"Today," I repeated. "You keep practicing. You keep being consistent. Let the song speak."
She bit her lip.
For once, she didn't argue.
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That night, a new comment appeared.
From the same account.
"If she's serious, let's see her sing live."
I smiled.
There it was.
The trap.
Live performances were where amateurs died.
Bad acoustics. Nerves. No editing.
Yueyin saw it too.
Her hands shook slightly as she showed me the screen.
"They're challenging me."
"No," I corrected. "They're baiting you."
She swallowed. "What if I want to answer?"
I studied her face.
Not anger.
Not arrogance.
Determination.
"When?" I asked.
She blinked. "You're not stopping me?"
"I won't stop you from growing," I said. "I'll stop you from being stupid."
She almost smiled.
"Give it time," I continued. "We'll choose the stage. Not them."
She nodded.
Trusting me again.
Later, alone in my room, I opened the analytics.
The hate didn't slow the growth.
If anything, engagement increased.
Arguments. Replies. Shares.
Controversy without chaos.
Perfect.
The system flickered briefly.
[Observation:]Negative attention detected.Impact: Minimal.
That was all.
But I understood the real meaning.
This was the beginning.
Not of fame.
Of resistance.
The next day, Yueyin practiced harder.
She corrected mistakes she used to ignore.
She asked me to listen. Again. And again.
"Was that flat?""Be honest.""Don't lie to me."
She wasn't singing to impress anymore.
She was singing to prove something.
And that scared me more than her beauty ever had.
Because once someone starts proving things—
They stop being naive.
Before going to sleep, I checked the comment section one last time.
The hater was still there.
Quiet now.
Watching.
I typed nothing.
I didn't need to.
Soon enough, he'd hear her voice again.
And next time—
It wouldn't be through a screen.
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