380 stickers.
Build the room first, then the shrine, then the friends. The walls take the posters of the invented band, the grid of photocards drawn as blank little portraits, the neon heart and the lightning bolt; the floor takes the beanbag, the papasan chair, the tower of speakers, the dance mirror on wheels and the cardboard standee of an idol with a simple face. Then the small things nobody tidies: bubble tea, a cup of instant noodles, chunky trainers, a backpack, a cat in a tiny hoodie.
Put a plushie on the bed and it rides the bed. Move the bed later and the plushies come along. The neon signs, the star lights, the galaxy projector and the ring light are real lights: turn the night on and the room glows lilac and cyan, the way it looks at one in the morning when the choreography is almost right.
Pick the room you build in: the plain bedroom, or a house with an upstairs where the shrine and the dance floor get a level each. Change the walls and the floor to suit the sheet. Nothing counts and nothing ends; you stop when it looks like the room of somebody who has watched the same video on a loop all week.
