I am Miss Worm-in-an-Apple
[Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual beings, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.]
When disappearing messages in a high school alumni WhatsApp group spark an unexpected power struggle, a mischievous member — part instigator and part observer — pokes the silent majority with sarcasm, sass, and a wicked sense of timing. Hilarious, relatable, and sneaky, this is a story for anyone who’s ever itched to click “Send” or “Forward” on Whatsapp.
31 March 2025.
The day the circus rolled into town.
I nearly choked on my teh tarik when I saw the little notification pop up:
"Ah Kau turned on disappearing messages. New messages will disappear from this chat 24 hours after they're sent, except when kept. Click to change."
Twenty-four hours? Seriously, Ah Kau? Are we running a secret spy ring now, Ah Kau?
It was a whole year of living under the gentle dictatorship of the 7-day timer – long enough to accidentally post something embarrassing, yet short enough that no one could find it when they needed evidence. The system worked.
Until Ah Kau got bored, or senile, or both.
I could practically hear the collective sigh from the silent observers. Me? I hovered my thumb over the "Click to change" button. So tempted. But no. Let someone else light the fuse this time. I sat back and waited.
Nothing. Not a single peep.
This lot — my dear, cowardly mates — would rather gargle bleach than confront anything head-on. You could slap them with a dead fish and they’d smile and thank you for the exfoliation. But I knew, oh, I knew the silent drama unfolding behind those muted keyboards. Virtual eyebrows arching. Silent accusations flying.
Twenty-four hours turned into twenty-four days.
Twenty-four days of messages vanishing faster than free durian at a buffet. Witty remarks, terrible jokes, helpful newspaper PDFs — all gone by breakfast the next day. It was glorious in its own irritating way.
Was it a coup? A passive-aggressive protest? Or was old Ah Kau simply being… Ah Kau? (And I do mean "old" in every sense.)
I almost — almost — admired it. A digital purge. Minimalism for geriatrics. Maybe this was the future we deserved. Quiet. Clean. Lifeless.
Then, BAM — 24 April. Another notification.
Bridget had struck.
Ninety days! Ninety bloody days messages would remain in my storage!
From instant amnesia to hoarder mode in one click. It was like someone traded a firecracker for a termite-infested merbau tree.
Was this rebellion? Retaliation? Had Bridget thrown down the gauntlet against Ah Kau’s regime of vanishing vapors?
My fingers itched. My popcorn was metaphorically buttered.
This wasn’t about disappearing messages anymore. Clearly, this was war. Lines had been drawn.
It was time to throw petrol on this smouldering pile of pensioner politics.
And they know me — they don't call me Miss Worm-in-an-Apple for nothing.
I composed my little hand grenade:"Do I see some power play here lately? God help me, what's behind all these disappearing messages?"
Simple. Innocent. (Ha!) I sat back and waited for the firestorm.
Nothing. Not a peep.
Fifty-three old farts, and not one had the guts to bite. Fifty-three read receipts mocking me with their silent judgement.
Fine. If subtlety doesn’t work, nudge harder.
Ignoring me? The maestro of mayhem? It stung a little, I won't lie.
Fine. Time to dial it up.
"Maybe we should just let the admins duke it out? Winner gets to decide the message lifespan?"
That ought to stir some blood. Let the old boys flex what’s left of their muscles. Let the aunties clutch their pearls.
Come on, I begged silently, somebody bite.
But no.
Cora — dear, earnest Cora — had to swoop in with her kumbaya nonsense: "A 7-day retention would be a nice figure."
Nice? Nice? Where's the drama in 'nice'? Where's the clash of titans, the wailing, the gnashing of dentures?
This was turning into a tepid tea party. We’re supposed to be fighting for the soul of our messages, not knitting bloody scarves for world peace.
I scowled at my screen. An hour dragged by. Maybe two. I almost threw my phone into the fish pond.
Then — an ember flickered.
Dexter had changed the setting back to 7 days.
Finally! A heartbeat! A pulse!
And Cora, ever the peacemaker, thanked him. Thanked him! For what? Thanked him for restoring the boring status quo.
My rage simmered like a pot of old curry. This whole saga was collapsing into spectacular dullness.
And then, Dexter's gutless backpedal: "I don't know what happened. I must have accidentally reset it."
Accidentally. Sure, Dexter. Just like I accidentally finished a whole box of Ferrero Rocher by myself last Christmas.
After all, changing WhatsApp settings is just a sneeze. You go diving deep into WhatsApp settings, scroll through menus, click, and confirm – much like the kind of thing that happens when you sneeze – hard.
Coward. Sellout. Typical.
Then, just when I thought it couldn’t get any sadder, Gina piped up, bless her freaking earnest heart. "Shall we have a poll? 24 hours, 7 days, 90 days or forever?"
Forever? Good Lord. Gina had finally lost her marbles. Gina, darling, half of us might not be forever! At our age, planning two weeks ahead is optimistic.
Twenty-four hours later.
Gina’s poll was ignored. Spectacularly.
Fifty-three ghost mates.
I almost admired it — this unspoken, collective agreement to do absolutely nothing. Apathy, but weaponized.
Is this it? Is this how it ends? No fiery debates? No dramatic exits? Not even a few inconspicuous-assertive "left the group" notifications?
Maybe.
For now. This may be a lull, not the end.
But mark my words: the cinders are still there. Waiting. Give it time.
Someone will post a 30-minute-long video that won't load.
Someone’s phone will choke on a 50MB file. Someone will throw a tantrum about storage space.
Two days ago, a fire broke out at our old school. Our school had a name, and the prefix famous replaced infamous only after we graduated.
Almost the entire hostel block was razed to the ground. The media went mad — photos, videos, aerial shots – some professionally taken, some not so. Not everyone is good with night photography.
And right on cue, Silas — yet another pain-in-the-ass mate — decided this was his moment.
He dumped not one, not two, but four videos onto the group. Massive files. Some grainy, shaky, vertical videos clearly scraped from social media.
Why couldn’t he just post the links like a civilised human? Does he think he’s Spielberg? Or is he just that dense? But, alas, he’s one of the admins. I won’t add fuel. Not yet. He’s got the power to boot me into oblivion.
And I like my front-row seat to the madness too much to risk exile.
Still, I waited. Oh, I waited. Waited for someone — anyone — to comment. To complain. To just send a damn emoji.
Even a thumbs-down would do, if anyone should dare.
I was ready. My artillery was prepped. And trust me, this wasn’t going to be a mere hand grenade. It was going to be a mortar shell of sarcasm and suppressed rage.
But no. Two days passed. Radio silence. As if Silas never posted. As if the videos were invisible. As if Silas was invisible.
The group had returned to its natural state: an elegant graveyard. Emojis don’t stir the dead.
So here I am.
Phone in hand. Popcorn ready. Stirring the pot. Winking at the chaos.
Wearing my crown of glorious mischief.
Conflict, after all, is the only cardio we have left.
They call me Miss Worm-in-an-Apple for a reason.
And I intend to keep earning the title.
The worm will be back.
(Note: Inspired by true events in a WhatsApp group of high school friends)
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