If you weren’t soaked, shouting or posting about, were you even at Waterbomb?

The festival didn’t just splash water; it flooded campus with music, movement, and pure chaos. It was the kind of event where you didn’t just attend, you became part of it. And if you weren’t there? You felt it. Deep in the group chats. Loud on your feed. It wasn’t just about being at the event, it was about being seen at the event. That’s where something familiar crept in: the Fear of Missing Out. FOMO wasn’t just lingering in the background; it was soaking everyone too.

Enter Waterbomb, now a campus staple, drawing inspiration from Thailand’s vibrant Songkran festival, a massive water fight mixed with celebration. But it has taken on a life of its own. After last year’s breakout success, Waterbomb 2025 didn’t just raise expectations. It drenched them.

Let’s rewind for a moment, back to when the crowd was still dry, untouched by water guns and hoses, and the only thing hitting us was Joseph JP’s electrifying beatbox set. With no instruments or props, just his voice and incredible lung power, he layered sounds that mimicked an EDM drop, drum kicks, hi-hats, and bass wobbles. The crowd was stunned silent at first, caught between disbelief and awe, before erupting in cheers and applause as the rhythm took hold. The atmosphere shifted from casual waiting to full-on hype, everyone moving as one. His ability to recreate an entire DJ setup through beatboxing alone was not just entertainment. It was a revelation, a reminder of raw talent that often goes unnoticed.  In that moment, I felt a different kind of FOMO, not about missing out on the splash zone, but on the realisation that maybe we all have something untapped within us. That maybe showing up isn’t just about presence, but about being open to discovering new parts of ourselves too.

But it was when Malaysian singer-songwriter Talitha stepped on stage that the more familiar, mainstream FOMO kicked in. Her voice cut through the humid air – smooth, confident and magnetic. People raised their phones instantly, capturing the moment not just for themselves but to show others they were there. The standout moment came during her final song. As the sun started to set, phones lit up, not to record but to turn on flashlights. People waved them in the air, creating a soft glow that spread across the crowd. It wasn’t dramatic or over the top, but it made the moment feel special, like everyone was quietly in sync. It was simple, yet it stuck with me. Even then, it was hard to tell where the real moment ended and the performance for the feed began.

But why? Because being there wasn’t just about enjoying the music, it was about being seen, being counted, being part of something bigger. A badge of honour for those who showed up, and a quiet absence for those who didn’t. Waterbomb wasn’t just a water fight anymore. It had evolved into a living feed of inside jokes, blurry selfies, and splash-filled chaos. And if you weren’t in those photos, tagged in the reels, or mentioned in the group chats, it almost felt like you weren’t part of the moment at all.

It’s in moments like these that the weight of presence really hits. Not just being there physically, but being part of the story as it’s told and retold online, in conversations and in memories. That’s what turns a single afternoon into something bigger. Waterbomb wasn’t just an event anymore; it became a reference point, the kind of thing that casually drops into conversations long after the water’s dried.

Maybe that’s the irony of it all. For an event so shaped by being seen, the most unforgettable moment was the one no one could post. Funnily enough, the moment everyone wanted to capture was the one we couldn’t. As soon as the water play signal dropped, phones flew out, only to be instantly drenched. One powerful blast and that was it: soaked screens, abandoned selfies. I won’t lie, I was a little bummed I couldn’t snap my hundredth pic. But in hindsight, maybe that was the moment I actually let go. The moment I stopped trying to document everything, and just lived it.

That shift was only amplified by DJ Sherry Alyssa, who took over the stage right after. Her set didn’t just bring the energy, it gave the chaos rhythm. As water sprayed from all directions and everyone screamed through dripping hair and soggy clothes, she dropped beat after beat that somehow made it all feel cinematic. The music faded into the background as the wild, carefree chaos took over. In that moment, there were no phones, no filters, no carefully crafted stories, just the simple thrill of your favourite song being played.

But what stood out most to me at Waterbomb was how some chose to experience it on their own terms. For those who found the crowd and chaos a bit much, it did not mean missing out. Instead of walking away, they created their own version of the day. Sitting in the dry zones or tucked into quieter corners of campus, they still caught the vibe. No splash, no spotlight,  just their own way of being part of it all. 

This quietly powerful moment showed me that belonging isn’t one-size-fits-all. Sometimes, it’s about creating space where we can engage in ways that feel right for us, rather than how the world says we should. But in a world where our lives are so often filtered through screens and feeds, the pressure to be seen and to be visible can weigh heavily. FOMO shifts from simply missing out on experiences to an ongoing challenge of measuring ourselves against a curated digital narrative.

So we’re left asking: Are we showing up enough? Are we visible enough? And in the rush to be present, are we forgetting what actually matters to u

Written by Nicholi De Silva

Photos by Bong, Brandon Crystal, Jia Tong, Jin Yi, Thong Chen, Yuto