I regret doing Gen Z lifestyle.
Pato was born in a quiet village between Laka Village and the Peninsula Village.
Life there was simple: sunrise meant chores, and sunset meant stories around the fire.
His parents were proud farmers, and everyone in the village respected hard work.
But Pato had different dreams.
From the moment his cousin visited from the city with a smartphone and wireless earbuds, Pato was hooked.
He watched TikTok the mango tree, learned slang, and started dressing like influencers he followed.
He saved every coin to buy secondhand sneakers and begged his uncle in town for a used phone.
Eventually, he left the village for the city, claiming he wanted to "chase vibes and freedom."
In reality, Pato wanted to be famous—an online personality, a Gen Z icon.
In the city, he rented a small room with two others and lived off instant noodles and borrowed Wi-Fi.
He posted dance videos, motivational quotes, and "soft life" captions, though he was anything but soft.
Likes came in, but not the money.
Job offers? None. Skills? Still undeveloped.
He avoided traditional work, calling it "energy-draining" and "not his vibe."
As months passed, the city wore him down.
The streets weren’t made for dreams without direction.
Friends started disappearing—some went home, some got real jobs, and some just grew tired of pretending.
Meanwhile, Pato’s online followers started asking: “Bro, when’s the next real video?”
Eventually, he had to return home.
No success story, no brand deals, no glamour.
The village hadn't changed.
But now Pato had.
He walked more slowly.
Looked people in the eye again.
His father handed him a hoe and said, "The land doesn’t lie to you, son."
And for the first time in a long while, Pato stopped trying to go viral—and started trying to grow.
Fake life is very expensive with nothing good in return, leading to being yourself and working hard.
Fake life is truly expensive