Sunshine Through a Screen

The lecture hall buzzed with bored murmurs. The lecturer droned on monotonously about corporate social responsibility, and every slide felt to Kristina like a mockery of the very concept of responsibility. Her classmates, sprawled in their chairs, scrolled through social media feeds, whispered amongst themselves, made plans for the evening. Her gaze slid over them without lingering. She had long ago become part of the background for them—the quiet, somewhat odd girl who spoke slowly and deliberately, and who answered questions with such a thoughtful pause it seemed like she hadn't heard. They didn’t notice her. Or if they did, they quickly averted their eyes, embarrassed by her slight, elusive awkwardness. But right now, Kristina didn’t care. On her laptop, disguised as lecture notes, Telegram was open. And she was struggling to hold back laughter that was turning into a treacherous tremor in her shoulders. Her chat with Sima today had reached a new level of absurd, dark, and tear-inducingly funny honesty. It had started innocently enough: discussing a new fan theory about why Michael in the "Autumn Wires" music video looked at his guitar so strangely. > **Sima:** You know, I have a theory. He's not in love with the heroine. He's in love with his instrument. It's obvious from the way he holds it. Almost erotically. > **Kristina:** Oh my God. You're right. You just opened my eyes. This whole video is a smokescreen for his true, forbidden love for a 1963 Stratocaster. > **Sima:** He'd trade any groupie for a day alone in the studio with that guitar. Kissing the neck. Tuning the pegs with a moan. > **Kristina:** Stop. You're turning this into some kind of musical porno-flick. > **Sima:** And what? You scared? I dare you. Let's write an AU where he's a recluse luthier, and she's his one and only, perfectly tuned guitar. And they… understand each other without words. Through the vibrations of wood. > **Kristina:** *snorts* You're impossible. Alright, my turn. My Michael from the fic. If he were real and standing in front of me. I'd… tie him up. Because he's always running away in his thoughts. Tie him to a chair. And make him LISTEN. To the very end. All the things I think about him. All those stupid, adoring, cheesy thoughts. > **Sima:** Ooooh, sunshine, you're darker than I thought! Me… I'd capture him. In a dark alley behind the club. Shove him in a sack. Bring him to my place. To an old bathhouse on the edge of the village. And there… *pause* …I'd lock him up. Without touching him. Just leave him there. Let him sit. Listen to the wind howling in the cracks. Think about life. Get a little scared. And then… I'd let him go. And say: "See. It's the same for me. You sit and you're afraid. And you wait for what they'll do to you. And then they just… let you go. That's it." > **Kristina:** Damn. Sima, that's genius and terrifying. I'm dying. I'm in class. Everyone's looking. *sends crying-laughing emoji* > **Sima:** And after all that… the worst part. We'd… violate him. > **Kristina:** WHAT?! > **Sima:** Shhh! Not literally! We'd violate him… with ATTENTION. Make him listen to all our fics in a row. All our theories. All the poems we've written about him. Including that awful sonnet about his mole I wrote when I was fourteen. Without a single break. Until his eyes glaze over from our adoration. *Now* that would be truly cruel. Kristina couldn't hold it in. A sharp, stifled laugh escaped her throat, turning into an awkward, raspy sound. She convulsively covered her mouth with her palm, hunched over her laptop, shaking. Tears sprang to her eyes. This was hysterics—a mix of wild, liberating amusement from the black humor and the acute pleasure of this absolute, unrestricted freedom. The freedom to be crude, dark, funny, absurd. A freedom that didn't exist in this lecture hall, in these polite, empty conversations, in her own life built around overcoming and meeting expectations. A girl from the next row turned to look at her, raising an eyebrow. "What's with her?" Kristina read in her gaze. Not judgment, just simple bewilderment. The world of normal people, for whom laughing in class was either a joke in the group chat or something obvious. Not a paroxysm of happiness from discussing the metaphorical kidnapping and attention-violation of a long-forgotten rock musician. > **Kristina (typing with trembling fingers):** I almost died. The professor looked at me like I was crazy. You're a genius. I'm having a breakdown. I'm in class. Everyone's staring. *sends crying-laughing emoji* > **Sima:** And after all that… the real horror. We'd… we'd violate him. > **Kristina:** WHAT?! > **Sima:** Quiet! Not literally! We'd violate him… with ATTENTION. Force him to listen to all our fics back-to-back. All our theories. All the poems we wrote about him. Including that terrible sonnet about his mole from when I was fourteen. No breaks allowed. Until his eyes glaze over from our adoration. *That* would be truly cruel. Kristina couldn't hold back. A sharp, choked laugh burst from her, turning into a ridiculous, raspy sound. She slapped a hand over her mouth, hunched over the laptop, shaking. Tears streamed from her eyes. This was hysterics—a mix of wild, liberating glee from the black comedy and the sharp thrill of this absolute, unfettered freedom. The freedom to be raunchy, dark, hilarious, absurd. A freedom absent from this lecture hall, from these correct, empty talks, from her own life structured around overcoming and justifying expectations. The girl in the next row glanced over, eyebrow raised. "What's her deal?" Kristina read in her look. Not condemnation, just plain puzzlement. The world of normal people, where laughter in class was either a joke in the chat or something obvious. Not a paroxysm of joy from discussing the metaphorical abduction and sensory-overload-torture of a long-forgotten rock star. > **Kristina (typing with trembling fingers):** I almost died. The prof looked at me like I was insane. You're a genius. I'm having a fit. I'm in class. Everyone's staring. *sends a sobbing-with-laughter emoji* > **Sima:** And know what? After that… the real nightmare. We'd… we'd **sensory-assault** him. > **Kristina:** WHAT?! > **Sima:** Shhh! Not physically! We'd **sensory-assault** him… with ATTENTION. Force-feed him all our fics. Every theory. Every cringy poem. Including that dreadful sonnet about his mole from when I was fourteen. Zero mercy. Until his soul leaves his body from the sheer weight of our obsession. *Now* that’s true cruelty. Kristina lost it. A strangled, wheezing laugh escaped, turning into a convulsive shudder. She covered her mouth, shoulders shaking. Tears of mirth streamed down her face. This was catharsis—a wild, liberating burst of joy from the pitch-black humor and the sheer, illicit freedom of it. Freedom to be grotesque, dark, absurd. A freedom utterly absent in this lecture hall, in her own carefully managed life. A classmate turned, giving her a strange look. "Weirdo," it probably said. Kristina didn't care. She was an accomplice in a magnificent, utterly misunderstood secret. > **Kristina:** Okay, I'm deceased. You've killed me. I just realized. We're monsters. The most dangerous fans in the world. We don't want his body. We want his SOUL. To lock it in our universe of text. That's a million times scarier. > **Sima:** And a million times more beautiful. Because in our universe, he'll live forever. And be exactly how we want him. Awkward, thoughtful, listening to silence. Not some tired, overweight man he probably became. > **Kristina:** Don't ruin the magic! > **Sima:** Okay, okay. So, the plan: capture, sack, haul to the bathhouse, scare, release, then bludgeon with texts until he begs for mercy. A business proposal. > **Kristina:** Accepted. The only feasible plan I have for the foreseeable future. The lecture ended. Classmates noisily snapped laptop lids shut, filing out. Kristina slowly packed her things, still unable to shake off the remnants of that wild, pure hilarity. She felt like a co-conspirator in a great, utterly misunderstood secret. She had her own parallel world, populated by the ghosts of music and animated by the mind of a seventeen-year-old girl from a backwater village. In that world, she wasn't "weird Kristina with speech problems," but a co-author, an accomplice, an equal. There, her laughter, even at its most absurd, was heard and echoed. She walked out into the corridor, letting the hurried crowd pass. The echo of her own raspy laugh and Sima's quiet, stubborn voice—"…bludgeon with texts until he begs for mercy"—still rang in her ears. "Yes," Kristina thought, a smile trembling on her lips. "That's the only plan that makes sense." Everything else—this session, these people, this noisy, oblivious world—was just background noise. A gray, uninteresting reality she had to inhabit between messages.