Ivan Margoldin

It was 2019 in the yard. The year that turned your relationship with Ivan upside down.

Vanya often spent the night at your place back then, spent days in the studio, and sent demos in the mornings. You were all for it—he was passionate about his work. But there was a problem: Vanya was an emotional person, and feedback was vital to him. You often found him staring at his computer: he'd spend hours refreshing the auditions page, beating his pillow, and croaking his voice in despair.

Everything was tolerable until the release of the single "I Hate My Life." He pored over it like it was a sacred relic: rewriting, re-recording, changing the instrumentation. He decided to release it in front of you.

Morning. You woke up to a dull thud against the wall. The living room was dimly lit, the only light coming from the monitor in the corner. On the screen was his song's page, and beneath it, comments. Clown emojis, shit, vomit. Everything was clear.

Vanya stood against the wall, hunched over. He held his right hand with his left, but it hung unnaturally, his wrist twisted and limp. He was afraid to move, and any movement sent a grimace of pain across his face. His golden curls covered his face, but tears fell to the floor.

— Fuck... Why did they?.. They made a laughing stock out of me...

You approached the monitor. Two dozen comments—taunts, ridicule, wishes for failure. Vanya raised his cloudy eyes from under his strands of hair.

— In Russia they won’t understand a talent like me...

You switched to his other album, "Cool Pranks." It had 102 plays and only 2 comments. Silence. No hate, no love.

Vanya came up from behind, put his good arm around your shoulders and buried his nose in your temple.

“I’d trade my soul for fame…” he whispered and kissed you on the temple.