Performing for an empty theatre

The lunch photo that broke me

It's 2PM on a Tuesday and I'm at one of those no-name coffee shops that exist purely for people like me - the recently unemployed who need WiFi and dignity for the price of a single drink.

The coffee costs $2.50 now. I remember when it was $0.80 and came with actual condensed milk, not whatever chemical compound they're using today. The uncle behind the counter has that look - silently calculating how long I'll camp here with my laptop. The speakers are playing those Chinese New Year songs on repeat even though it's November. Same playlist since 1995 probably.

Three months since the layoff. Three months of dodging the question "So what are you doing now?" at every family gathering.

I open LinkedIn to update my status. The cursor blinks at me like those old computer lab monitors from school, waiting for me to spin my unemployment into something inspirational.

"Open to opportunities" sounds desperate. "Taking a career break" sounds rich. "Exploring new challenges" sounds like I chose this.

I'm drafting version four when her face appears in my feed.

Melissa Tan.

Physics class, 2002. She sat behind me in that classroom with the broken air conditioning, where Mr. Lim would explain vectors while we all slowly melted into our plastic chairs. She was the one always borrowing my notes on Monday morning, returning them with mysterious stains and doodles in the margins. Sometimes there'd be song lyrics written in purple gel pen.

Average grades, zero stress. The kind of student who made teachers shake their heads and mutter about wasted potential. While I rushed between tuition centers with my color-coded schedule, she'd leave school right after the bell, earphones in, no hurry to be anywhere else.

Her post: A photo of her lunch.

Basic cafeteria food - rice, vegetables, meat in sauce. The curry has bled into the rice, creating that familiar orange pool. Fluorescent food court lighting making everything look slightly medical. You can see her colleague's elbow and someone's tissue packet in the corner.

Caption: "Boss gave extra portion today! 😋"

47 likes. 12 comments of actual conversation.

I stare at that number like it's a test score that doesn't make sense.

Ten years of being a product

I scroll through her feed, and it's like watching a parallel universe where LinkedIn never became a performance stage.

January: "First day back at work. Holiday mood still sleeping."
March: "Office AC broke again. Slowly melting."
May: "Boss birthday today. Had to sing. So embarrassing."
July: "Got assigned to organise company dinner. Help."

Every post - mundane observations about her mundane life. No hashtags about #GrowthMindset or #ThoughtLeadership. No humble brags disguised as "lessons learned."

Just... life.

And every single post has engagement. Real engagement. Not the obligatory "Thanks for sharing!" or "Insightful!" that plague my feed like (AI) zombies on LinkedIn. Her colleagues actually talk to her. Her boss replies with laughing emojis. Friends make dinner plans in the comments.

Meanwhile, my feed reads like a LinkedIn greatest hits album nobody asked for:

"Thrilled to announce..." (I was terrified)
"Grateful for the opportunity..." (they made me do three jobs)
"Excited to share insights from..." (I stayed up till 3AM preparing)
"Honored to have spoken at..." (to an audience of 12, including the organiser's mother)

Ten years of crafting the perfect professional image. Every post optimised for maximum impact. I even took that course - "Personal Branding for Professionals" - where they taught us to view ourselves as products.

"You are the CEO of You, Inc.," the instructor had said, clicking through slides of successful executives with perfect smiles.

So I became a product.

Packaged, polished, and positioned for success.

I posted about weekend hackathons (exhausting), industry conferences (expensive), and leadership books (that I skimmed). I cultivated connections like a garden, pruning anyone who didn't advance my career.

Melissa? She posted about her cat getting stuck behind the washing machine.

83 likes.

The day I became a success story

I close her feed and return to my draft. My mind drifts to three months ago - the morning I graduated from employment.

The layoff email came at 8:47 AM on a Thursday. Automated, yes, but that's just efficiency. Like those ScanTron sheets we used for MCQ papers - fast, unbiased, final.

What mattered was my response.

Remember those comprehension exercises where they ask "What would you do if..."? While other laid-off colleagues were having their stages of grief (denial, anger, updating resume in Comic Sans), I spent three days crafting the perfect LinkedIn announcement. The same focus I had cramming for A-Levels, except this time the subject was myself.

Draft one - too emotional.
Draft two - too detailed.
Draft three - perfect.

"After an incredible journey at [Company], I'm excited to announce that I'm exploring new opportunities. While the recent restructuring was unexpected, I'm grateful for the experiences, the learnings, and most importantly, the amazing people I've worked with..."

Not "I got fired."
Not "Help, I need a job."

Exploring. Opportunities. Grateful.

I included achievements like those model answers in assessment books. Revenue impact. Team leadership. Strategic initiatives. The keywords that matter. The kind of post that shows you're a player, not a victim.

Posted at 9:47 AM on Tuesday. Peak engagement hour, according to every LinkedIn guru worth their blue checkmark.

87 likes. 15 comments. My phone buzzing like those old Nokia phones when you beat Snake high score.

"You'll bounce back!"
"Their loss!"
"Let's catch up over coffee!" (We never did.)

This is how you handle setbacks. This is personal branding done right. Turn your worst day into content. Make unemployment look like a strategic choice.

Melissa probably doesn't even know what personal branding means. Still posting about lunch while professionals like me are networking, strategising, optimising.

I return to drafting my status update. This time, I'll mention consulting opportunities. Shows flexibility. Shows I'm in demand.

She posts about curry rice. I craft narratives about my career journey.

That's the difference between us.

The girl who didn't study, scored higher

I'm perfecting my new status update when my phone buzzes. Another LinkedIn notification. Probably another recruiter who saw my perfectly crafted announcement.

But no. It's her again. Melissa. Posted 20 minutes ago.

"Kena scolded by boss today for wrong report. Anyone free tonight? Need alcohol."

I almost laugh out loud. This is exactly what I mean. No strategy. No thought. Just emotional word vomit on a professional platform. Posted at 3:47 PM too - completely off-peak hours.

I click on it, ready to cringe at the career suicide in progress.

143 likes. 45 comments.

Wait. What?

The comments aren't just sympathy. They're... real. Her colleagues offering to buy first round. Friends suggesting places. Her boss - THE SAME BOSS WHO SCOLDED HER - commented "My bad also. See you at Clarke Quay?"

My layoff announcement - my strategic, optimised, three-day masterpiece - has 87 likes. Three months old.

Her complaint posted 20 minutes ago already has almost double.

I check the timestamps again. We posted on the same day. The day I got laid off, she got scolded. I spent 72 hours crafting. She probably typed while walking to the pantry.

I find myself calculating her engagement rate. It's a habit now - I do it for everything. Restaurant reviews (post after 24 hours for better recall). WhatsApp replies (not too fast, not too slow). Even coffee shop visits planned around non-peak hours for optimal seat availability.

Last week, I spent fifteen minutes deciding which MRT route would give me better LinkedIn browsing time. The Circle Line has fewer stops.

Melissa's posts break every rule. Random timing. No hashtags. Photos with bad lighting. She posts when she feels like it - lunch at 12:17 PM, complaints at 3:47 PM, cat photos at midnight.

And yet.

Her comment section looks alive. People making actual plans. Inside jokes I don't understand. The kind of easy conversation I time perfectly at networking events - enter at minute 5, exit by minute 15, maximise contact collection.

But no. I'm overthinking this. Different strategies for different goals. She's collecting friends. I'm building a network.

There's a difference.

There has to be.

The message I didn't calculate

Something makes me click the message button. Maybe it's the coffee talking. Maybe it's three months of strategic networking yielding nothing but scheduled coffee chats that lead to more scheduled coffee chats.

I stare at the blank message box.

How do you talk to someone you haven't spoken to since 2002? Someone whose notes you once held hostage for completed Physics homework?

I type. Delete. Type again.

"Hey Melissa, saw your post about getting scolded..." Delete. Too stalker-ish.

"Hi! Long time no see! I'm exploring opportunities in..." Delete. Not everything is a networking opportunity, idiot.

"Remember me from Physics class?" Delete. Of course she remembers. I was the guy with color-coded highlighters who shushed people during revision.

Finally, I just type:

"Hey, saw your post. That sucks. You okay?"

Send.

I immediately regret it. No strategy. No purpose. What's my desired outcome? What's the call to action? I've broken every rule from that "Effective Digital Communication" workshop.

My phone buzzes. WhatsApp notification.

Unknown number. But the profile photo... is that Melissa?

"Eh is this still your number? It's Melissa from Physics class! I still have your number from when we did that group project in Sec 4 😅"

Before I can process this, more messages flood in.

"OMG just saw your LinkedIn msg! Ya lor, today damn suay. But used to it already la. Boss like that one."

"Hey, I saw you kena let go also? You okay or not?"

I stare at her messages. She saw my post three months ago. Didn't comment. Didn't like. But she remembered.

And she still had my number. From 2002.

More messages appear.

More dots.

"Eh actually, you want to join tonight? We going Clarke Quay. Nothing fancy, just drinks and complain session. Can intro you to my colleagues, they all very nice one. Maybe got lobang?"

I check the time. 4:23 PM. I have a webinar at 8 PM - "Leveraging Your Network in Challenging Times." Already registered. Already blocked my calendar.

"Tonight ah..."

"Ya! Don't think so much la. Just come. 7pm can? I send you location."

She sends the location before I can craft a polite decline. Followed by three beer emojis and a zombie emoji.

"Eh btw, your LinkedIn damn power. Mine like pasar malam only. Teach me leh!"

I almost laugh. Or cry. Maybe both.

The empty theatre

I close LinkedIn and stare at her message. 7 PM at Clarke Quay. Real people. Real drinks. Real conversations about real problems.

When was the last time someone invited me anywhere without an agenda?

I scroll back through my WhatsApp. It's a graveyard of transactional conversations. "Thanks for connecting!" "Let's circle back next quarter." "Appreciate your insights!"

Even my Instagram looks like a personal branding textbook. Conference badges. Coffee shots with startup logos carefully in frame. Every post a performance.

Meanwhile, Melissa posts her cat stuck behind the washing machine at 11 PM.

73 likes. Comments full of laughing emojis and other people's pet disaster stories.

Suddenly, I realise something that makes my stomach drop.

All this time, I thought I was playing to a packed house. Thought my 500+ connections were an audience, hanging on every strategic update.

But they're not watching. They're performing too.

We're all on stage, acting our hearts out, but nobody's in the seats. Just empty rows of other performers, too busy with their own shows to watch anyone else's.

Except Melissa.

She's not performing. She's just... living. And people show up for that.

She doesn't need a theatre. She's not performing.

My theatre is empty because I am.

I actually laugh. Out loud. The uncle looks over, confused.

When was the last time I laughed at my own stupidity? God, I've been such an idiot.

But it's not too late right? It's never too late.

Melissa's invitation is still there.

7 PM. Real people. Real drinks. Real life.

The Final Act

You.

Yes you.

You want me to tell you I went to Clarke Quay, didn't you? That I posted the honest message and found my tribe.

That everything changed.

That's the story you'd share. The neat ending with lessons learned and transformation achieved. The kind that gets 200 likes and a bunch of fire emojis.

But we both know real life doesn't work that way.

The truth?

I'm still sitting here. Still staring at two unsent messages like they're exam questions I didn't study for.

My kopi has gone cold. The uncle is wiping tables, giving me that look: the one that says "order something or get out."

I close my eyes. Open them. The messages are still there.

"Got laid off 3 months ago. Been pretending I'm okay. Anyone want to grab a drink?"

My thumb hovers over "Post." Just press it. Just press it. Just-

I delete it.

My hands are steady now. No more shaking. This is familiar territory.

I open a new draft: "Thrilled to share insights from my career transition journey..."

The words come easy.

My fingers find their rhythm, muscle memory from a thousand similar posts. Like reciting model answers I memorised long ago.

Lesson one: Maintain your professional brand.
Lesson two: Every setback is a setup for comeback.
Lesson three flows into lesson four into lesson five.

It's garbage. I know it's garbage. You know it's garbage.

But it's safe garbage.

Melissa's message notification pulses at the top of my screen. My thumb hovers over it for half a second. I watch it tremble - that stupid, honest shake that gives everything away.

Then I swipe it away. The webinar starts in 3 hours.

I should prepare. Test my mic. Check my virtual background. Practice my insightful questions for the Q&A.

My phone buzzes. Instagram notification. Someone liked my sunrise photo from last week! The one I took at 5:47 AM, edited with three different apps, captioned with some quote about new beginnings. Took longer to perfect than the actual sunrise lasted.

I check Melissa's Instagram.

Her last post: A photo at 11:42 PM, crowded table full of dishes and beer towers. Someone's arm reaching across for the peanuts. Caption: "Wednesday nights hit different when your boss is buying 🤪"

312 likes.

Her friends commenting inside jokes I don't understand. Her life looking messier and more alive than my entire curated feed.

I scroll through my own grid again. Conference name tags. Coffee shots where you can see the cafe's logo. That obligatory Marina Bay Sands photo every Singaporean has. Each post timed for "optimal engagement" (FYI it's 8pm, when everyone's done with dinner and mindlessly scrolling).

Even my food photos look dead inside. Some $28 acai bowl I bought for the gram, couldn't even pronounce acai properly. Ate cup noodles for dinner that night to balance the budget.

Meanwhile Melissa's posting her economy rice. Fluorescent lighting, curry all mixed with rice until cannot tell what's what. 312 likes.

My last candid photo? Deleted after 20 minutes. Only got 12 likes. Can't have that fucking up my grid aesthetic.

I realise I spend more time curating my life than living it. Calculating which photo to post next like it's some chess game. Story? Feed? Archive? Delete?

Meanwhile she's out there actually having a Wednesday night.

Because that's what we do, isn't it?

We see the empty theatre. Feel the weight of all that silence. Know exactly why we're alone.

And we crop out the sad parts... and return to the stage.

LinkedIn, Instagram, real life - different platforms, same performance.

Oh well, at least I know my lines.

Somewhere in Clarke Quay, Melissa is laughing with real friends about real things.

No script. No filter. Just... life.

While I sit here, perfecting my show for an audience that was never there. The Chinese New Year songs are still playing, even though the coffeeshop is empty now. Fifth loop today.

The uncle comes over. "Boss, closing already, still want order anything else?"

I shake my head, pack my laptop. Time to go home. Time to prepare for tonight's webinar. Time to post that sunset photo I've been saving.

Time for the show to go on.

After all, I've gotten quite good at performing for empty seats.

The same way you have gotten good at yours.

Haven't you?