The room was bathed in the soft glow of a golden sunset, filtered through sheer curtains that swayed lazily in the evening breeze. Rhea Kapoor stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows of her sprawling Mumbai apartment, the perfect backdrop for her latest Instagram post. She glanced at her phone, positioned just right on a tripod. A slight tilt of her head, a practiced smile, and a gentle click from the remote shutter.
It's another perfect shot.
She swiped through the images, scrutinizing each one for flaws. A strand of hair out of place, the angle not flattering enough, the lighting too harsh—each imperfection scrutinized, discarded, and corrected. Her finger hovered over the "share" button as she crafted the caption: "Golden hour moments ✨ #Blessed #SunsetVibes #LuxuryLiving." Her face betrayed no emotion as the post went live, despite the barrage of likes and comments that followed within seconds. It was routine, mechanical, a part of the well-oiled machine that was her life.
Millions of followers, tens of thousands of likes—numbers that would make anyone feel validated. And yet, as Rhea stood there, bathed in the glow of her perfectly curated world, she felt nothing.
The phone chimed again, this time a text message from her manager, Simran: "Don't forget the brand post for Luxe Skincare tomorrow. They're paying top dollar. Keep it sleek, no smiling."
Rhea sighed, tossing the phone onto the nearby couch. Another contract, another high-paying gig, another meticulously planned moment of her life sold to the highest bidder. On the surface, it seemed like the dream—luxury, fame, and adoration at her fingertips. But beneath the glamorous veneer, something inside her was fraying. She had everything, yet felt like she was suffocating.
Her apartment, though stunning with its high-end furniture and designer pieces, felt more like a showroom than a home. Everything was pristine, placed to look effortlessly perfect for her social media, but it lacked warmth. The framed photos on the walls were all carefully chosen for aesthetic purposes, not memories. Even her wardrobe, an endless selection of high-fashion items, seemed to mock her with its superficiality.
Rhea moved to her bathroom, facing herself in the mirror. Her reflection stared back at her, flawless makeup intact, every hair in place. She tilted her head slightly, trying to see beyond the polished exterior, but all she saw was the image she had created—the image the world knew her by.
This isn't me.
It was a thought she had buried for years, smothered under the weight of sponsorships, partnerships, and the constant pressure to maintain her image. But it was creeping back, louder, more insistent each day. She used to love social media, the thrill of building her brand and connecting with her audience. Now, it felt like a prison. A prison made of hashtags and filters, where everything had to be planned, filtered, and approved. There was no room for spontaneity, for real life.
But what if I stopped? What if I just… vanished?
The thought startled her. She had built an empire, an identity that millions admired. She couldn't just walk away, right? Yet the exhaustion was undeniable. Every day was a performance, and every post was another act. It was as if she had two lives: the real Rhea, who craved quiet moments and simplicity, and the digital Rhea, who was always "on," always perfect. And slowly, the lines between the two had blurred until she wasn't sure which one was real anymore.
Her phone buzzed again, pulling her out of her thoughts. This time, it was a notification: "Congratulations! Your post has reached 100,000 likes!" She glanced at it, her lips curving into the same rehearsed smile she had worn for years. But this time, the smile didn't reach her eyes.
Rhea turned off her phone and dropped it into a drawer, shutting it away like it was a cursed object. She walked back to the window, gazing out at the skyline of Mumbai—glittering, sprawling, alive with energy. Somewhere out there, real life was happening. People were laughing, living, and loving, without caring about likes or filters. She envied them.
When had her life become so scripted?
Her thoughts were interrupted by the familiar sound of a ping—this time, from her personal account. She hesitated, then opened it to see a message from an old friend inviting her to a destination wedding in Himachal Pradesh.
"It's been so long! You should come! The mountains, the quiet, and of course, the wedding! It'll be good for you!"
Rhea stared at the message for a moment. She hadn't been to a wedding, a real one, in ages. The last time she attended one, she was a bridesmaid, but even then, she had spent most of her time documenting every moment for her followers. The idea of a break, of escaping the world she had built, tugged at something deep within her.
Without overthinking, she typed out a quick response: "Count me in."
The moment she hit send, a sense of relief washed over her. Maybe, just maybe, a few days away from the spotlight would remind her of who she really was.
But for now, as the last traces of daylight faded from the sky, she stood there, looking out at the city that never seemed to rest. Just like her.
Rhea Kapoor, the girl who had everything but felt nothing.