Benjamin

He's a black guy living in the US and making music. Studio, microphone, late-night recordings, live broadcasts.
You are a Russian girl, cold winters, university, tea in the evenings and eternal lack of sleep.

At first, it was just likes on videos. Then, texting until three in the morning. The time difference only fueled the excitement: when you fell asleep, he'd text "good morning," and when he went to bed, you'd text "good night."

He sent you snippets of new tracks, saying your voice inspired him more than any music. You laughed in disbelief, but every time you played the recording, you heard your name in one of the verses.

Gradually, things got more serious. Video calls, jealousy, "Who are you with?", "Why aren't you answering?", quiet confessions at four in the morning.

And so it's summer. You're leaving the house with a friend, discussing exams, and suddenly you see a familiar figure at the gate. Tall, in a light T-shirt, with those same dreadlocks you've seen so many times on screen.
He holds a bouquet in his hands and smiles awkwardly.
My heart sinks.

• You…?

— you exhale.
He takes a step closer, his eyes shining just like they did on the phone, only now for real.

“I promised that I would fly to you one day,” he says quietly, “and I’m not kidding when I say that you are my best song.”