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Green’s finger swiped down for what felt like the thousandth time on his phone screen. There hadn't been any new comments in at least a minute, and every time the little circle disappeared and the page flashed into view, he winced a bit more and squeezed everything a bit harder.
Finally a red dot appeared on his notification bell, and he almost squealed from excitement as he tapped out a reply to the new comment. Every little interaction thrilled him a bit more.
Then after he hit send, he did it again.
Green finally snapped himself out of his loop when he heard the low power warning on his headphones.
He'd been blasting music for three hours straight now, drowning out everything around him. The cries of excitement from his friends outside. Playful screaming.
Had they invited him?
No.
He fumbled around in the dark for the headphones charger and sighed. They hadn't talked much recently. He'd been so busy with his ever growing channel.
But it had paid off. His channel had absolutely blown up. Every day he watched the line on the analytics chart grow higher and higher.
Who needed four lame old sticks? Green had 500,000 more people than that.
Five hundred thousand people.
But were any of them his friends?
Doubt had been nagging at him lately, pecking at him every moment of the day like a horrible pest.
He ignored it, of course. Green was supposed to be the confident one, after all! He was the cool one, the one with the quickest jokes and the sassiest remarks. He acted like he was the best, and his friends loved him for it.
Sometimes though, he felt like the opposite.
Green's phone dropped to the floor of his bedroom beside him. No new notifications had appeared. How long had it been? A few minutes? It felt like days.
He scrunched the loose sleeves on his shoulder into a ball in his fist. His other hand drifted towards his pursed lips.
Second would tell you to stop.
Second’s not here.
Green nibbled a little at his fingernail before snapping it away. He swiped again at the phone screen.
Nothing.
Was it hot in here? In, out, another deep breath like the exercises Blue always tried to get him to do.
Blue’s not here.
They never helped anyway.
Green tugged off his hoodie, his usually well combed hair now a frizzy mess around his head. He immediately felt the chill of the room land on his sweaty skin. Chewed and frayed fingernails flickered back to his shoulder, clawing at the strap of his tank top.
Another reload. Nothing new.
What was going on? No new comments? Was it glitching? Did they not like his videos? Were they not good enough?
Was he not good enough?
Yellow would usually tell him he was being irrational. She would tell him to calm down, to remember that sometimes people are just busy.
Yellow would tell you to be logical.
Yellow’s not here.
There was a familiar bitter tasting liquid on his fingers. Pain shivered through his arm. Green licked the blood off his new cut, right along where his nail rejoined his skin.
Red often got overly worried when anyone was hurt or had a cut, rushing to their side, cleaning it, wrapping it in the band-aids with the cars and trucks on them.
Red would tell you that you would feel better soon.
Red’s not here.
Green swallowed the sliver of skin, hard.
Why were his friends so upset with him? He was doing this, all of this, for them. He’d made them famous! People from all around the world knew them now, and loved them.
Well, most of them.
And Green knew, he knew that he shouldn't cater to some thoughtless hate comments. But there was an itch in the back of his mind, that if he ever were to upset them just a bit, he would lose them all.
Green didn't know why he felt like this all the time. This horrible urge to be the best, in every situation. Sometimes his friends would laugh it off. Sometimes they wouldn't. And every time, Green felt amazing.
But he wanted more.
His friends weren't enough. He needed more. So he made videos. And with every video the stats climbed higher and higher, stacking into an impossible mountain. And Green was at the top.
And his friends were at the bottom, invisible ants that his voice couldn't reach.
He didn't need them, he reminded himself.
He had built this empire on his own.
Emerald eyes squinted through blurry tears at the only source of light in the midnight room. Green's teeth slipped over the shreds of skin on his fingers, ripping them up and squeezing out more drops of blood.
Something changed on his screen, and it was like a shot had been fired. His finger slammed down hard on the notification, his hand shaking.
One comment.
“Where's the rest of the gang?”
Green must have thrown his phone so hard it cracked against the far wall of the room. Everything squeezed, harder and harder. Teeth grinded against teeth. Fists clenched skin, digging the nails in and leaving red crescents. Arms wrapped around knees. Eyes were hidden, tears leaking out.
Nothing mattered. Green wasn't good enough, no matter what he did. How could he please everyone? He couldn't.
But if he couldn't please anyone, then why please anyone at all?
He didn't understand anymore. He thought he was right. He had been, for the longest time.
Doubt wrapped around him, sucking the air out of his lungs. Was there even air in the first place? He gasped, in and out, in and out, in out inoutinoutinoutINOUT.
His fingers flew to his mouth again, the coppery taste circling his tongue. They felt so hot, so sweaty, so painful. Green didn't care that it hurt anymore. He couldn't stop himself.
One finger. Two. More blood.
Nothing mattered.
Three fingers. Thumb. He twisted his arm awkwardly to get at the pinky.
Six fingers.
His breathing finally began to slow.
Seven fingers. A not-so-nice finger. Another thumb.
His arm trembled with every little tear of the skin.
The finger of love. The tenth finger.
Green's head fell back against the wall. He was tired, so tired. His hands throbbed. But his breathing was slow, his eyes dry.
Slowly, he crawled his way across the room and retrieved the little glowing rectangle that contained his entire life. His lock screen greeted him with the smiling faces of his friends. How long had it been since he'd seen them like that? Weeks?
Did it matter? Did he care?
Scarred, calloused fingers lined with cuts swiped down for what felt like the millionth time on Green's phone screen.