Tonight, KAngel became a woman loved by a million.
Congratulations, KAngel.
Congratulations—to me, the other me.
To be blessed by so many, prayed for, adored like a saint…
You really are an angel now.
And no, I don’t think, “This isn’t the real me.”
They’re both me. Both of them masks.
I already have someone who knows the whole of me anyway.
So it doesn’t matter. Not tonight.
I still end up checking the accounts of those assholes who used to mock me.
Every time I do, it pisses me off all over again.
They don’t even remember how they sneered at me in class,
how they laughed, how they looked down on me.
To them, I was just that weird girl who stopped coming to school.
They probably don’t even remember making fun of me.
They just laughed because some weird kid said or did something weird.
Just a reflex. Nothing personal.
So no, they don’t feel guilty. Not one bit.
At first, I used to believe in things like karma.
That the good would be rewarded and the cruel would pay for what they’d done.
I really thought the world worked that way.
I was naive.
That kind of thinking is sweeter than the sugar I dump into my coffee.
Cute. Isn't it ?
Those people won’t even feel a sting watching KAngel’s success.
They’ll never connect “the weird girl in the corner” with “the angel of the internet.”
Even if I showed up at a reunion and said, “That was me,”
they’d probably just say, “Wow, that’s amazing!”
Because to them, they never bullied me.
They can’t remember laughing at anyone. Only with each other.
From homeroom to after school, they were always laughing.
How many times did I laugh in that classroom?
They’re smart enough, decent enough, and even know how to suffer.
Unfair, isn’t it?
Even pain isn’t ours alone—they take that too,
turning it into a tasteful little drama of “growth.”
They cry, they scream, they overcome, and they call it “life.”
If KAngel cried on stream, they’d say, “That’s so touching.”
If I posted “One million!” they’d reply, “You worked so hard!”
They’re good people, after all.
Model citizens.
For them, teasing a gloomy classmate was just “youthful mischief.”
If I ever told them, “You ruined me,” they’d gasp and apologize.
“We didn’t realize. You were so brave to endure that.”
They’d do the morally correct thing—
because they’ve grown, matured, evolved into proper adults.
They’d never lose their temper online like some lunatic streamer angel, right?
At least the haters are easier.
No need to pity garbage.
To them, I’m just:
“A whore who slept her way up.”
“A fraud buying followers.”
“A scammer, a criminal, a soulless narcissist chasing numbers and cash.”
Amazing, right?
They can’t accept that someone else could succeed honestly,
because that would mean facing the emptiness of their own lives.
So they invent conspiracies to keep the mirror from cracking.
Pathetic, really—but almost pure in their desperation.
If I even hinted at suing them, they’d scatter like roaches.
And I can already hear it:
“Sorry, truth hurts.”
“Oh look, a feelings post.”
“Playing the victim card.”
Whatever.
Let them rot here, forever nursing their fake selves in the net’s dark womb.
That’s what I love about them, actually.
They can’t hide their weakness.
They can’t say “Look at me! Love me!” outright, so they claw at others instead.
So simple, so tiny,
their egos bloated until they burst into ash.
It’s adorable, really.
No sarcasm. I mean it.
Let’s keep sneering at each other, shall we?
While the “normal people” go live their nice little lives,
you and I will stay here—
trapped in this bottled-up hell,
playing angel forever.
I love you.
In every sense of the word,
my dear otaku.
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