KayosTheory

At the center of it, reading is supposed to develop understanding. Comprehension requires a lot of time and attention. Yet the culture surrounding BookTok and the need to create content often disrupts this process. As Dera (2024) observes, many creators engage in visible reading practices such as “tabbing” books, where colored stickers mark specific passages, but the emphasis in videos is often on showcasing the result of the tabs rather than discussing the substance of those passages. The visual evidence of engagement becomes more important than the intellectual engagement itself.

This shift matters because how we read affects what we take away from books. Research confirms that accelerated reading impairs comprehension (Pearson, p < 0.05), showing that BookTok’s emphasis on speed over reflection may weaken readers’ understanding. (Windi et al., 2023). In a world that rewards finishing books fast and posting constant updates, depth gets sacrificed for quantity. Instead of thinking about complex ideas, readers may skim for quotes or emotional moments that look good online.

Beyond that, performative reading also influences how readers form opinions. Dezuanni (2021) explains how people on Tiktok learn through “peer pedagogies,” where viewers adopt perspectives modeled by influencers and other users. While learning together is not inherently bad, it can encourage conformity. When certain interpretations trend, readers may feel compelled to to align their opinions with the popular one rather than analyzing the text independently. The algorithm forces consensus. Individual reflection would then diminish.

The consequences are not only intellectual but emotional. BookTok has introduced a culture of gamification, where reading goals resemble fitness targets. Reading goals have taken on a gamified quality, with users “tracking our reading goals with the fervor of fitness influencers counting steps” (Moone, 2025), rushing through books for the dopamine hit of updating their status. Similarly, Lai (2025) critiques the pressure around the number of books one must read to be deemed a “real reader,” questioning how reading became a matter of quota. When numbers become the centerpiece of focus, reading risks turning into labor: comparison breeds anxiety, and progress charts can replace genuine enjoyment.

This is not an argument against BookTok entirely. Online communities can introduce readers to new authors and create spaces for shared enthusiasm. However, when visibility becomes the main goal, reflection quietly disappears. Books become mere aesthetics, reading turns into content; the act survives, but its depth dies.

A simple solution starts with a mindset shift: reading is a personal journey, not a performance. Stop tracking every book, ignore numerical goals, and form your own interpretations. Take your time to actually engage with the text before sharing thoughts online. Reading should expand your mind, not feed an audience. Sometimes, all it takes is closing the app, opening the book, and reading for yourself.

References

Dera, J. (2024). BookTok: A narrative review of current literature and directions for future research. Literature Compass, 21(10-12). https://doi.org/10.1111/lic3.70012

Dezuanni, M. L. (2021). Tiktok’s peer pedagogies - learning about books through #BookTok videos. AoIR Selected Papers of Internet Research, 2021. https://doi.org/10.5210/spir.v2021i0.11901

Lai, G. (2025, April 2). Love or hate it, our relationship with BookTok is one that needs to be examined. Vogue Singapore. https://vogue.sg/booktok-opinion/ 

Moone, M. (2025, June 7). The toxic positivity of BookTok: When reading becomes performance. Medium. https://minniemoone.medium.com/the-toxic-positivity-of-booktok-when-reading-becomes-performance-0124ba9de7a6

Watts, T. (2025, October 30). From pages to performance: The rise (and risks) of BookTok. World of the Web. https://wotw.netstudies.org/2025/10/30/from-pages-to-performance-the-rise-and-risks-of-booktok/

Windi, W., Nasriandi, N., Syahrir, S. (2023). Reading skill: Correlation between reading speed and reading comprehension. Ideas: Journal on English Language Teaching and Learning, Linguistics and Literature, 11(2), 1003-1013. https://doi.org/10.24256/ideas.v11i2.3676

All measurements conformed to expectation. Light curves followed theoretical models. Spectral signatures corresponded with predicted elemental abundances. Even long-term luminosity trends remained consistent with established frameworks. Stars were, in every measurable respect, exemplary.

Exposure scans were executed on a distant cluster with all procedural parameters meticulously controlled: telescope aperture, CCD calibration, filter alignment, atmospheric seeing, and data reduction pipelines were verified and cross-checked. Initial results adhered strictly to predicted behavior.

Until the first anomaly appeared.

The light curve deviated slightly. The deviation was marginal, yet measurable, and statistically significant within the tolerances of long-term observation. My initial response followed established protocol: the instruments were recalibrated, data pipelines reprocessed, and all atmospheric interference reassessed.

The result persisted.

Sensitivity thresholds were adjusted. Observations were repeated under varied seeing conditions and over multiple nights. Each iteration reproduced the same unexpected curve. Stars previously deemed predictable now exhibited irregularities, appearing only during periods of direct observation and returning to normal once the exposure ended.

No dramatic shift. No chaotic fluctuation. The pattern was restrained, almost imperceptible, but precise enough to demand attention.

Documentation proceeded with meticulous care. Terminology was deliberately neutralized: deviations were described as correlated or coincided, with any language implying volition or intent carefully excised. Science, after all, requires restraint.

Yet unease began to emerge. Observation schedules were modified. Instruments were alternated. Zoom levels and exposure durations were varied systematically. The effect endured, slightly intensified under close focus, marginally diminished when withdrawn. It was as if the behavior of the stars was contingent upon the act of measurement itself, though no theoretical framework could account for such a phenomenon.

I paused, considering the language I would later type in the notes. The word attention lingered in my mind before being discarded. Stars do not perceive, they emit radiation. They collapse. They obey gravity and thermodynamics. Nothing more.

The breakthrough came elsewhere. Microbiology. A colleague requested assistance comparing bacterial behavior under prolonged observation. I scanned the graphs with practiced detachment.

Microorganisms behave differently when observed. Not through awareness, but because observation modifies conditions: light exposure, temperature, chemical balance. Containment itself introduces bias. Instrumentation, methodology—every interaction leaves a trace.

As I reviewed, a creeping connection formed. Stellar anomalies mirrored microbial responses. Gradual increase. Plateau. Return to baseline. Statistical echo. Too precise to dismiss.

I closed the report and sat in silence.

Humans watch bacteria without thought to their awareness. Entire cultures live and die under glass. Never conscious. Why assume stars are different?

I returned to cosmic data with a new question. Not what the stars were, but what they did.

Clusters once treated as independent points revealed coordination over extended observation. Fluctuations aligned. Not communicating. Not crude. Calibration.

As if something was learning how to be seen.

I avoided naming it. Analogy is treacherous. Still—the more data I reviewed, the more patterns multiplied. Attention influencing behavior. Focus sharpening response.

The stars did not respond to radio waves. Music. Mathematics. Nothing. Observation, however, produced a reaction.

I wondered: had I inverted cause and effect? Perhaps the stars were not reacting to us. Perhaps we were reacting to them.

If stars are not sources of light, but apertures through which something observes— If brightness is adjustment, not emission— Then the patterns made a terrible kind of sense.

Eyes do not shine to illuminate themselves. They shine to focus.

I did not write that down. It required no words.

Once seen, the implication threaded through every observation. Vastness. Absence of response to our signals. Sense of being watched without intent. Indifference assumed. Perhaps it was detachment.

We watch bacteria without emotion. Why assume differently of stars?

One final test. Expanded the lens slowly. Entire regions captured. Individual fluctuations dimmed.

But something else emerged.

Stars did not brighten independently. They aligned. Toward the lens. Toward me.

I blinked.

Something was aware. Not conscious. Not malicious. But… attentive.

I shut the instruments and ended my research. Fatigue, officially. Fear, unofficially. Not fear of harm, but knowledge.

Bacteria cannot sense lenses above them. Stars… perhaps could.

I wondered how long we had been under glass.

Short, sharp breaths. Mind racing.

The sky shifted. Patterns I could not quantify. Repeated curves, subtle brightness, alignment—toward me, toward observation.

Blink. Shift. Zoom. Realign. I could not escape the sensation. Eyes on me, though nothing should see.

No terror in the usual sense. Not apocalyptic. Humbling. Almost… comforting. Universe indifferent. We are incidental.

Data archived. No dissemination. Restraint. Some knowledge too vast to share.

On clear nights, I look up. Not for patterns. Not for stars. Just… the field around me. I live beneath a lens I did not control. And perhaps… always have.

“Hi! Do you know this anime?” she burst out, voice booming throughout the walls, though her gaze never left the phone. 

“Oh! And this one! Take a look at this game! Oh my god, this is so exciting! I just discovered all this a week ago and I’m completely OBSESSED” 

She rolled onto her back, tossing her loose hair over her shoulder, hands waving as she recounted plotlines and theories. I giggled, nodding quietly, and settled on the bed next to her, letting the motion of her words and gestures pull me into her orbit. Her fingers slid across the screen, tapping, scrolling, swiping, each movement carrying a spark of excitement. Every new discovery made her shoulders shiver, eyes widen, and lips part in awe. She was utterly absorbed, spinning in a world entirely her own, free from anything beyond homework and the next story to binge on. I envied her—envied the way her universe stretched endlessly in this quiet room, the fire in her eyes blazing bright, a freedom I could no longer reach.

“I don’t want this to stop,” she said, springing into a crisscross applesauce position. Her eyes gleamed as she balanced her phone on her knees, “I can’t imagine doing anything else every day… I just want this forever. I don’t want to grow up. I just want to live here, in this space.”

I shifted my weight, fingers brushing the soft pillows. “One day, it’ll be different,” I said softly, though I noticed it sounded more like a warning than comfort. “Life…will get heavier. University, responsibilities, the future—it’ll pull you away from this world…it won’t leave you any time to indulge yourself like this, I mean, at least not every day… I’m just telling you… that you will someday miss this freedom. You will someday miss this era.” 

I watched her frown slightly, lips pressing together, then her eyes flicking back to the screen. She tilted her head to the right slowly, confused. And yet I could feel what she’s thinking, her universe spinning inside her head just a little faster, brighter. I envied it still. I envied all the free time she has, the curiosity, the wonder she has in her. 

Then, very casually, she shoots a question that stopped me in the middle of my thoughts:

“But if you loved it so much, why do you talk about it like it’s gone?” 

Her demeanor didn’t seem serious—her tone was light, like she was just asking a passing question. But the words landed on me like a meteor in my mind.

“Didn’t all this help make you who you are now?” she added quickly, still not looking up at me, continuing scrolling.

I was stunned in place, unable to answer. Her question circled in my head, quiet at first, then expanding until it filled every corner of me. The universe wasn’t gone—it had never left. Every story I loved, every character I obsessed over, every community I dove into—those stars hadn’t disappeared. They had traveled with me, shaping me, guiding me. Nostalgia doesn’t hurt because the moments were lost; it hurts because they mattered so profoundly.

Growing up doesn’t mean leaving the universe behind. It means carrying it differently. I carry it now in memory, in imagination, in the way I see the world, and I know I should cherish these moments.

She flopped onto her side, blanket slipping over her shoulder, still scrolling, legs bent, pillow tucked under her chin. The soft hum of her phone, the faint creak of the bed, the pause of her fingers on an edit—it all reminded me of the world that had shaped me. It still lived in me.

I tried to speak. “Yeah… that…” My words trailed off. Her brows lifted slightly, eyes never leaving the screen. “Huh? What?” she asked, casual, oblivious. I smiled quietly. “Never mind.” One day she would look back on this time not with sadness, but with gratitude—for the universe she discovered, for the fire that made her feel alive, for the person she was building long before she knew it.

“Thank you…” I whispered as I stepped toward the door. I glanced at her one last time, cocooned in her blanket, still lost in her universe, and murmured to myself, “Thanks for reminding me.” I smiled as I closed the door behind me, and in a blink, it vanished. The room faded, the glow disappeared, but the universe—the tiny spinning stars of my own adolescence—remained, lighting the sky inside me.

𝓝𝓸𝓼𝓽𝓪𝓵𝓰𝓲𝓪 𝓲𝓼𝓷’𝓽 𝓶𝓮𝓪𝓷𝓽 𝓽𝓸 𝓫𝓾𝓻𝓭𝓮𝓷 𝓶𝓮. 𝓘𝓽’𝓼 𝓵𝓲𝓰𝓱𝓽. 𝓘𝓽’𝓼 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓼𝓽𝓪𝓻𝓼 𝓽𝓱𝓪𝓽 𝓶𝓪𝓭𝓮 𝓾𝓹 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓼𝓴𝔂 𝓸𝓯 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓾𝓷𝓲𝓿𝓮𝓻𝓼𝓮 𝓘 𝓸𝓷𝓬𝓮 𝓸𝓻𝓫𝓲𝓽𝓮𝓭 𝓯𝓻𝓮𝓮𝓵𝔂, 𝓼𝓽𝓲𝓵𝓵 𝓽𝓱𝓮𝓻𝓮, 𝓰𝓾𝓲𝓭𝓲𝓷𝓰 𝓶𝓮.

Being in that space made me aware of something I usually keep quiet. I watched affection move easily between people, how naturally some are chosen, how effortlessly they fit into roles that seem almost predetermined. I was present, but not quite included in the exchange. The absence wasn't loud; it was subtle, like a pause in a conversation that never resumes.

As I try to fill the gaping hole in my heart by improving myself academically, I find that the spaces between studying and resting are where my thoughts wander most. In those quiet moments, despite discipline and effort, my mind drifts back to the same longing, for attention, reassurance, something achievement alone cannot fully provide.

Sometimes I mistake this longing for male attention, but not attention I am searching for. It is assurance. A confirmation that I am worthy of being chosen, worthy of affection, worthy of care that is given freely. When that reassurance is scarce, the desire does not disappear, it simply learns how to wait.

Growing up with my own mother, whose love was stready, sure, and luminous, I learned to see motherhood as something magical and gentle. She made care look effortless, burdenless, as if it were natural, and I grew up nestled in the warmth she created. Sometimes I think the longing I feel now is less about a specific child but rather more about the desire to continue and pass on that kind of love.

But I am just nineteen, standing at the edge of a revine, at the fragile beginning of my adult life. I know I am not yet ready for the responsibility. I have nothing, no partner, no stability, no version of myself yet that could hold a child with the certainty that they deserve. Even so, the feeling won't leave. It now sits quietly within me, not asking for action, just reminding me that a part of my future already has a shape I recognise.

So for now, I will let these feelings of longing rest still. I will allow myself to dream of motherhood someday, while choosing to grow towards it with the fullest of intentions. This desire is not a demand but a process - a quiet ache that points to the kind of life I hope to build. And as I wait for the future to unfold, 𝓘 𝓱𝓸𝓵𝓭 𝓸𝓷𝓽𝓸 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓽𝓻𝓾𝓽𝓱 𝓽𝓱𝓪𝓽 𝓲𝓽 𝓲𝓼 𝓼𝓾𝓬𝓱 𝓪 𝓼𝓽𝓻𝓪𝓷𝓰𝓮 𝓴𝓲𝓷𝓭 𝓸𝓯 𝓪𝓬𝓱𝓮, 𝓽𝓸 𝓶𝓲𝓼𝓼 𝓪 𝓬𝓱𝓲𝓵𝓭 𝔀𝓱𝓸 𝓱𝓪𝓼 𝓷𝓮𝓿𝓮𝓻 𝓮𝔁𝓲𝓼𝓽𝓮𝓭.

My whole being wandered off with the story until I almost forgot that I had a fully functioning life outside of it. There is a strange comfort in leaving reality behind and stepping into someone else's world, as if doing so might help me understand my own life. I do not know why I am so drawn to these stories. Maybe it is boredom, or maybe it is something deeper that I have not yet understood.

I am not sure what I am feeling right now. I would not say that I an sad. In fact, my life has been fairly smooth sailing. Still, I find myself returning to these stories again and again. Sometimes I think I am drawn to them because they remind me what emotions are supposed to feel like. When a character I love hurts someone they love, I feel that same heartbreak as if it were my own. Whatever they feel, I feel too. I laugh and cry along with them, but when the story ends, I am suddenly left with an odd sense of emptiness. Maybe fiction gives me permission to feel what I cannot admit in real life. Maybe it is easier to mourn someone else's heartbreak than to face the quiet emptiness of my own.

The more I think about it. the more I realise that I am not escaping as much as I am searching. These imagines places give me something I have been missing for a long time. They show me courage, connection, and care. Perhas what draws me in is their emotional beuty. In contrast, my world feels muted. Fiction does not fix that, of course, but it reminds me what being alive is supposed to feel like.

Then 11th grade came. We started talking about graduation, university, and moving out while in the car with mang ujang. We’d joked about our last time going to school in my car and going home in yours with mang ujang, our last time les emi with ko aji, last time our schedules would match like puzzle pieces. But none of it felt real. Not until now. Not until we were walking out on our last UN and UPRAK, not until prom night shimmered past us, not until graduation day. And now, here we are. At the end of the line. 

I don’t know what the future holds. Will you still be the same Kaitlynn I’ve grown up with? What kind of people will fill the spaces around you in America? I hope that even oceans and time zones won’t pull us apart. I hope one day I’ll visit you in California, and you’ll be my tour guide to all things American. We’ll eat In-N-Out like monsters, get stuffed at Raising Cane’s, having an ungodly amount of Nashville mozzarella sticks roam the aisles of Target like it’s an adventure, and stock up at Costco just for fun. Maybe we’ll even eat real NYC pizza in Times Square and stand beneath the Statue of Liberty or eat stale peeps. Maybe texting won’t always work out. But I trust our hearts will still know how to reach for each other.

So is this goodbye? Maybe. But is it the end?

We got separated, first into different MPLS groups, and then into different classes. The gap felt strange, like something was off-balance. Still, I’m glad we kept crossing paths. We had the same tuition schedule like pak Anton Wardaya’s class. God, that was a horribly fun time. I actually kind of miss it. The unbearable heat, the stuffy air, the chaos. Remember when the place was completely flooded and we had to turn back as soon as we got there? Somehow, even that became a core memory. Fun times!

Then in 11th grade, everything hit me. I crashed, mentally, emotionally, and even physically. It all spiraled so fast. I remember that one night in particular… the kind of night that drains you so much you can’t even cry. I didn’t have the energy to feel. But I texted you. And I’m so glad I did. I won’t write what you said, but what you told me that night still lives in me. Thank you for being my safe place when I couldn’t carry myself. 

Phones were banned, so we brought old Nokia ones just so we could call home. I can still picture you playing around with that extra zoom camera feature at Emi, like you were discovering some kind of hidden tech superpower. And lessons with Ko Ivan, where he always seemed to know when we were worn out. He’d show up with those cold tea drinks, a small gesture that made long afternoons a little easier

When PJJ started in SMP and everything went online, we still found ways to stay close. Mostly through texts, sometimes voice notes, but not as many calls as I wish. I still laugh thinking about how we used to sneakily take pictures of exam questions and text each other the answers like we were running a secret operation.  And then, there’s the disaster that was my confession to S. I can’t forget that night I called you, like it was a James Bond mission. And then he just replied with “Ok.” A part of me is still mad about that. But more than the awkward ending, I remember you. You listened to me ramble. You hyped me up, feeding my wild delusions. 

I remember the tiny park next to the center, where we spent what felt like hours on the swings, 90% of the time upside down. That’s where you taught me how to do a cartwheel. And god, that one lunch where we thought unagi bones were inedible, so we painstakingly picked each one out, only to be told by your mom that they’re edible. I can still picture us sitting on the ledge in the school lobby, legs dangling, waiting for our rides home. I’m also so grateful you introduced me to Dork Diaries. I still remember us lying upside down on the swings while reading, like the world had stopped spinning except for us. 

Like suddenly, all those seconds we never counted started meaning something. I feel like we’ve been stitched into each other’s timelines so tightly, I sometimes forget where my story ends and yours begin. 

Some people say that you should always remember the day you first met your best friend, like it’s an unforgettable and clear moment. But the truth is that I don’t really remember the first day I met you. Maybe it’s because we were so young back then. Or maybe because real friendship doesn’t need a beginning, it just becomes. I may not remember how it started, but I remember how it stayed. How YOU stayed. And that means more to me than any first impression ever would. 

As long as I can remember being a sentient human being, I have felt closer to my mother than my father. I told myself it was because we were both girls, because it was simply easier for her to raise me and my sister. But as I grew older and listened to my friends talk at school, I noticed how proudly they called themselves daddy’s girls. The phrase lodged itself in my mind, lingering like an unanswered question. I wondered what it would feel like to belong to that title.

I remember the day my mother played the DVD she made of my birth and early childhood. There was a clip of me lying on my back with my feet in the air, while my father lay beside me, smiling thinly at the camera. He played with my toys for a moment, his attention divided, his presence half-hearted. When I watched it at that time, maybe when I was nine, that scene stayed with me. It felt like a summary of who he had always been. In the rest of the footage, it was mostly my mother and my grandfather. My father appeared only once. That single moment still burns in my memory.

When I was old enough to have a phone and scroll through social media, I came across the term emotionally distant fathers. As I read its definition, something clicked into place. My father had always been there physically, but I cannot remember him ever truly connecting with me emotionally. We did things together, eating bakmi and watching a movie just the two of us once, but those moments became fewer as I grew older. Compared to the memories I share with my mother, they feel faint, almost unreal.

Seeing my friends interact so easily with their fathers makes me feel uneasy, as though I am watching something unnatural. Maybe that feeling is not discomfort at all, but envy. I think I long for what they have, the freedom to speak openly to their father without hesitation or fear.

My father has never complimented me. Not once. The first time it happened indirectly, I did not know how to react. I was sitting in the car with my mother when she said, “You know, daddy is actually very proud of you for getting into that university. He just cannot say it out loud.” I turned my face toward the window and stayed silent, conflicted and confused. Now, as I write this, I realize I am crying, not from sadness, but from relief. All those years, everything I did was driven by the hope that one day he would finally say the words himself.

I think the way he loved me shaped me more than I realized. It affected how I respond to male attention, how easily I attach my feelings to it. A single glance, a small gesture, and I give it meaning. I have come to understand that I do not crave the person. I crave the attention, the validation.

As I grow older, I see more of my father in myself, in the way I think, the way I act, even in the way I look. Once, someone asked if I wanted a husband like my dad. I said no immediately, without hesitation. I did not know why then. I have always resented how closely I mirror him, as though becoming him means inheriting the distance I once feared.

But perhaps this is simply the clarity that comes with growing up. I no longer hold this against him. I understand now why he is the way he is. It is the same reason my mother loved him enough to marry him in the first place. He shows love differently. Where others say “I love you” freely and visibly, my father ensures that we never lack anything. His love is quiet, practical, and unwavering. It is not superficial.