The Girl on the Screen

Chapter 1: The Girl on the Screen

At 11:47 p.m., the bedroom light was off, but the soft glow from the ring light pulsed like a moon caught behind chiffon curtains.

Zhao Yichen–known online only as “Xinyi”–adjusted the mic one last time, fingers brushing the cable with the familiarity of ritual. He tugged the wig slightly forward, tilted his chin, and shaped his lips into something resembling a smile. Not too wide. Just enough to look like someone who belonged. Someone adored. Someone who wasn’t him.

The webcam came to life.

“大家晚上好 (Good evening, everyone),” she said softly, voice honed through hours of careful mimicry–each syllable a balancing act between control and warmth. “오늘 하루 어땠어요? (How was your day today?)”

The comments came fast: > xinyiii!!! 你今天好美！ > I love your dress omg > sing IU’s song again pleaseeee 🥺 > 언니 목소리 진짜 천사 같아

Yichen drew in a breath.

Then sang.

It wasn’t just melody that held them. It was the ache braided into each note, a tremble that hinted at something private trying not to surface. Vulnerability–raw, unshielded–flowed from her voice, inviting strangers into a space he had no room for himself.

For three minutes and thirty-eight seconds, there was no Jiwon. No adopted son with a voice too soft and wrists too narrow. No boy told to be harder, louder, less fragile. There was only Xinyi.

When the last note faded, the chat burst into a flood of hearts and tearful gifs. Xinyi gave a graceful bow, lashes fluttering just so.

“谢谢大家，今天陪我到最后 (Thank you all for staying with me till the end),” she whispered.

She ended the stream.

The ring light shut off.

Darkness settled like dust.

Yichen stared at his reflection in the black screen–wig slightly off-center, collarbone exposed beneath a soft off-shoulder blouse. Silence had a strange weight, heavier than applause.

His hands were trembling.

Outside his door, fluorescent light flickered down the hallway. Voices murmured in the kitchen–his adoptive mother reminding his brother to unplug the rice cooker, his father grumbling at the evening news.

In that world, he was Jiwon.

Just Jiwon.

He turned back to the mirror. Removed the wig. Peeled off the lashes.

“But she’s the one they love,” he murmured.

His voice cracked. Not from strain–but something more fragile. Something splitting down the middle.

He sat on the edge of his bed, the makeup wipe still clutched in one hand, his other pressing down over his bound chest.

Why does it hurt to take her off?

The thought came uninvited, unformed–yet undeniable. Every time he undid the image, stripped away the light and shimmer and softness, something inside him felt… unfinished. Like he was peeling away not a mask, but a layer of truth.

He remembered the first time he put on that wig. It was just a dare. Just a game. And yet–

And yet.

Xinyi smiled in ways Jiwon never could. Xinyi stood straighter, sang louder. She took up space he was never allowed. She didn’t shrink.

And when strangers typed: You’re beautiful, You’re talented, 언니 사랑해, it didn’t feel fake.

It felt like being seen.

Minutes later, he stood shirtless in the bathroom, chest bound tight beneath overlapping fabric. The skin beneath was raw, angry. He touched the red marks with a kind of reverence, as though pain made it all more real.

He looked himself in the eye.

Do you want this?

He didn’t have an answer.

Not yet.

But he knew this: tomorrow, he would stream again. Because that little square of light, that fleeting applause–it was the only place she could live.

And Xinyi… Xinyi felt more real than he ever had.

And that scared him more than anything else.