decl - Kirill Tolmatsky

The bus is shaking. An intercity route, somewhere near Ulyanovsk. I search for my charger in my backpack. My fingers stumble upon the paper. It's squared. The edges are torn. The handwriting is small.

I read. "If they find out I like your rap, they'll definitely hate me. And I'm 15 years old." I look at the date. Six months ago. Six months.

I put the sheet of paper aside. I look out the window. I remembered.

It was six months ago. I was sitting in the office. A stack of fan letters. The PR person said, "You don't have to read them." I said, "Leave them." I opened a few. The usual ones. Then I came across this.

She wrote: "I'm 15. I live in a small town on the Volga. There are people at school who call themselves tough. They beat up those who aren't. I'm not like that. I listen to your music. If they find out, they'll beat me up. I shaved my hair to go unnoticed. I'm almost broken. What should I do?"

I read it. Something inside me sank. But there were three interviews, a studio, a producer. I put the letter on the table. I said to myself, "Later." I didn't reply. I forgot.

The album is out. The tour has started. I thought I forgot.

Today I found a letter. I looked at the return address. A small town. I checked my cards. It's on the way. In ten days. My heart sank.

I tell the organizer, "Add the city. Tenth." He says, "It's already there." I say, "Okay."

I take out a notebook. I write a song. It's called "Letter." It's about how "half a year flew by, but anxiety lived inside me." About how "I looked at the return address, and something pricked me." This isn't a song for her. This is a song about me.

Ten days later, I'm standing backstage in her city. The organizer says, "All the schools have gathered." I can't hear him.

I walk out onto the stage. Lights. Noise. Thousands of faces. Young people. Shouting. I take the microphone: “Today I’ll read a song. It’s about one person in this room. I don’t know if he’s here. But I promised to come.”

The hall falls silent. I begin.