Me and the Seventh Planet

When I look to the skies, all I see is a vast expanse, peppered with tiny, blinking lights. I feel nothing about it, but it wasn't always like this. As recently as 2020, I once looked up to the stars and could name every planet and constellation in the Southern Hemisphere, knowing them as innately as a lover knows every nook and cranny of their partner's body. If that version of me could see how I am now, she would probably be heartbroken and ask what changed. What changed, was that I paid the price of loving too hard.

I've always been weird. It was never on purpose. One day, my peers just decided I wasn't like them, and I've lived with that social isolation ever since. I tried to take comfort in it, and for a while, it worked. Now, as an adult transitioning slowly into working life, I feel that rejection more than ever before, especially as my college mates are finding their own paths in life. It becomes increasingly obvious to me how different I am compared to people my age - different values, different ways of perceiving the world, different ideas of fun. The child me couldn't wait to grow up, as she mistook this for being wise beyond her years; the adult me now knows that it was never about maturity, I simply live in a different world, one that does not belong to that of my peers.

As many lonely children do, I sought to understand why I was the way I was. Astrology was the gateway drug to it all, and knowing myself to be an Aquarius, I revelled in the newfound explaination. Being an outcast was simply part in parcel of being an Aquarius, that was what I told myself. The "weird" sign of Western astrology, ruled by a planet equally as eccentric. Uranus, the seventh planet from the Sun.

People often project human attributes onto non-human things. It is more often a sign of our own need for connection than any quality the object itself possesses. And yet, I felt seen by planet Uranus. So many years, hidden in plain sight, waiting to be acknowledged, to be recognized, to be cared about. I felt so strongly about this representation that I started writing stories about Uranus, largely to vent my own loneliness. I'd come up with a whole story about the planets in the solar system, their humanity, their longing for connection. In the most finalized draft of the story, the planets worked at the "Solar System Research Park", modelled after Bletchley Park in which Alan Turing worked and the Burgess model. Their one research aim was to synthesize life and understand its origins.

Obviously, Uranus was still the odd one out. Uranus, the physicist, specializing in exoplanet research, hoping to find someone else just like him. I was proud of myself for developing what I deemed to be a unique premise. While the concept of human planets is not a new one, I took time to worldbuild, drawing inspiration from my love of the natural world and the sea. I was so excited about this world I had created, I started posting everything on my Instagram. This would inevitably become my downfall.

There is an artist quite well-known in the online sphere - think follower count in the hundred thousands - who got popular off her human planet designs. For anonymity purposes, I will refer to her as Magenta, as I do not believe her to be a malicious individual, just a reckless teenager, no matter how much the pain in my chest accuses otherwise. Many of my friends were followers of Magenta, and because of this, her work appeared on my feed often. One time, I clicked into her Instagram story by accident, but the words on my screen were eerily similar to what I have shared. Unable to believe my eyes, I clicked into my own Instagram story and checked the viewers, and there amongst the familiar profiles of my online friends laid a pale, grainy still of a movie I'd never watched - the profile picture of Magenta herself.

I was in shock. I had only 80 followers at the time, why was this huge, well-established artist clicking into my account? Especially when I had no prior engagement with her account? And worse yet, why was she paraphrasing the stuff I said and putting it on her own account? Dread started to settle in. I couldn't breathe, and my face felt hot. Still, I was in denial. I read that popular accounts sometimes use bots to engage with smaller accounts to give an illusion of connection. I tried to convince myself that that was what was happening. I needed to believe that it was all just a coincidence, that my mind was playing tricks on me.

Months passed. Magenta was still viewing my Instagram stories religiously, sometimes even being the first person to do so, much quicker than my own friends. I kept seeing my own words in her posts, but how could that be? I thought I was going crazy. I couldn't accept what was happening. New accounts started following me, including one I will call Marzanna. I did not know it at the time, but Marzanna was Magenta's alternate account, which she used to keep track of me for years after her main account stopped appearing in my story viewers.

Being a small artist didn't bother me. Being a small artist and seeing my own words being used by a big artist did. Especially when I saw people praising her for her genius and creativity. It wasn't fair, I thought. I was the one who came up with this stuff.

The last straw was when she posted her comic on my birthday. She knew it was my birthday, I had talked about it online. Seeing even my own friends spend the day talking about her was the straw that broke the camel's back. Since then, I have tried my best to rekindle my love for the world I had so painstakingly developed, but the excitement I feel for it is akin to eating an orange after brushing your teeth.

Once upon a time, there was a lonely Malaysian girl who looked up at the stars, finding pieces of herself in the planets. The same girl now hangs her head, afraid to dream for fear of losing it all.

Posted on 2nd May 2025.