Sunshine Through a Screen

Valeria left as calmly as she had appeared. Their breakup was quiet and mature. Over coffee in that same kitchen, Valeria said, "You know, I think we were both looking for something different in this. For me—a respite after the divorce. For you—proof that you could be desirable. And we gave that to each other. But that's all." Kristina nodded. There were no tears, just a light feeling of gratitude and emptiness. Valeria wasn't the "love of her life," but an important lesson. A lesson that her body could be not an object for use, but a source of mutual pleasure. That her speech impediment didn't interfere with kissing. That she could be chosen—not for her availability, but for genuine interest. This emptiness after Valeria made her lonely again, but no longer as vulnerable. She now had an inner core—the knowledge that she *could*. And that knowledge warmed her from the inside even in the empty apartment. And again, out of old habit, she reached for her phone. To Sima. But their communication over the past months had become sporadic. Short "how are you"s, exchanging music. There was no depth. The sunshine shone dimly and rarely. And just when Kristina had almost resigned herself to this new, polite distance, Sima wrote first. Not with a usual greeting, but with an explosion of delight. > **Sima:** KRISTINA! YOU'LL NEVER BELIEVE IT!!! > **Sima:** I MET A GUY!!! A real one! He wrote to me in a fantasy lovers' community! We've been chatting for three weeks! He's so smart, kind, he listens to me... He says I'm special!!! Messages poured in like confetti. Sima, always so restrained and polite, was scattering exclamation points and heart emojis. She sent screenshots of their dialogues. The guy, under the username 'Ilya_Wanderer', wrote exactly what a seventeen-year-old girl locked in four walls would want to hear: that her mind was astonishing, that her tenderness shone through every word, that he dreamed of hearing her voice. He asked about her favorite books, quoted something complex. He seemed perfect. Too perfect. The ice in Kristina's chest began to form with the very first photo Sima, beaming, sent "so you know what he looks like!!!". The photo showed a young man around twenty-five. Unremarkable looks, a slightly empty gaze into the camera. But Kristina recognized him. Not by name, but by type. By the way he was photographed—against the backdrop of his own car, inexpensive but washed to a shine. It was Ilya. The same Ilya who had added her on VKontakte two years ago. Back then, his username was 'Ilya_The_Understanding'. He wrote to her, Kristina, almost the same words: "I can tell from your posts how deep you are. I'm attracted to unusual girls. The ones the crowd doesn't notice." She, still naive back then, believed him, started corresponding. Until she found dozens of girls in his friends list. All with visible signs of disability in their profile pictures. All with captions like "my angel," "the purest." And all from the same city. She asked him directly. He started evading, then exploded: "You're all the same! All you want to do is complain! I wanted to help, but you..." And he deleted her. He was a collector. A pervert specializing in the most vulnerable. Those easily dazzled by attention because they never received any. Those society considered "non-sexual," but for him they were a perverse trophy. "A disability fetishist," Kristina thought with disgust back then. And here he was again. With a new username. Hunting new prey. Her Sima. > **Kristina:** Sima, stop. Listen to me carefully. I know him. He's not who he says he is. > **Sima:** ??? > **Kristina:** He added me two years ago. His friends list is a collection of girls with disabilities. He's a psycho. A fetishist. He's playing the kind prince to... I don't know what he ultimately wants, but it's dangerous. Block him. Right now. > **Sima:** ... > **Sima:** Kristina. > **Sima:** I don't know what happened between you and him two years ago. Maybe he just didn't like you. Maybe you misunderstood something. > **Kristina:** No, Sima, I understood everything correctly! He's dangerous! > **Sima:** You're just... jealous. Because you have no one right now, and I've found someone. Someone who says he loves me. For real. Not as a friend. But as a man loves a woman. You can't really understand that, can you? You like girls. It was a low blow. Precise, cold, childish in its cruelty. Sima used Kristina's own confession, her vulnerability that she had once been so frightened of, against her. Distorted it, turned it into a spear. Kristina pulled back from the screen as if physically pushed. She saw how it was all happening. How Ilya the hunter methodically, week after week, filled the void in Serafima's life, a void where Kristina could no longer be everything. How he replaced her, offering what Kristina couldn't—the romantic love of a "real man." And Sima, hungry for that fairy tale, clung to it, pushing away the hand trying to warn her. > **Sima (now without exclamations, coldly):** He proposed to me. Over the internet. Said he'd come, we'd sign the papers. And I agreed. > **Sima:** I'm choosing a wedding dress right now. On Avito. White, with lace. Mom says I've lost my mind. But she doesn't understand anything. She doesn't know what it's like to be chosen. > **Sima:** And please, don't write anything else bad about him. You're ruining all my happiness. No more "suns". No more "clever girls". Just this icy "please, don't write". Kristina sat, staring into emptiness, the phone in her petrified fingers. She felt absolutely helpless. She could kick Lyosha out. She could survive the breakup with Valeria. But how do you stop a seventeen-year-old girl who, for the first time in her life, feels like a princess and is flying straight into the wolf's jaws? She wrote shortly, desperately: > **Kristina:** Sima, he'll break you. Please, don't do this. I'm asking you. As a friend. The reply came instantly. Just two words. The last two words Serafima ever sent her. > **Sima:** You're not my friend. And the "online" icon went dark. Forever. Kristina tried to write again—the message wasn't delivered. She was blocked. Not just on Telegram. On all social media, email. Complete digital death. Kristina lowered her head onto the table. There were no tears. Only a deafening, all-consuming silence. The very silence they had once so poetically described in their fanfics. The silence after the thunder. Only there was no thunder. There was just the quiet, treacherous click of "block user" hundreds of kilometers away. And her sunshine, her crystal, naive, insanely precious Sima, was now choosing a white lace dress on Avito to marry her executioner. And she, Kristina, could do nothing about it. Nothing except sit in this silence and listen to the ticking of the clock, counting down the time to someone else's inevitable disaster.