Iniesta walked down a familiar street, slowly moving his feet. The morning sun gently warmed his shoulders, but inside he still felt cold. A light fog, still lingering after the night, lay on the asphalt, and the leaves on the trees were already beginning to turn yellow, reminding him that summer was ending. Tomorrow Sophie would leave for university — to another city, to a new life. Less than two days remained, and the thought squeezed his heart.
Over the past two weeks, he had gotten used to the routine: pills, a walk, a cup of coffee in a small cafe near the park. The doctor kept saying, "More fresh air, less stress." Inesto nodded, even though he knew that stress had long since taken root in him — especially now, when there were only a few hours left before his daughter's departure. He wanted to delay this moment as long as possible. That small, selfish part of him wanted to hold on as long as possible to the only thing he could call family. It seemed that time had flown by unfairly quickly, but it was also a fair punishment for those who did not appreciate the time allotted to them... Inesto was one of them. He had been thinking about this quite often lately.
He shook his head, mentally trying to hide his sad thoughts deeper in the recesses of his mind, not thinking and just observing his surroundings. And just in time, because he missed his turn. Resenting his thoughts, he turned to the bus stop, where several teenagers were hanging out. They were sitting on a bench, discussing a video on a phone. Iniesta rolled his eyes and stood a little further away, looking at the clock on his old phone. It was long overdue for replacement, as Sophie claimed, but Iniesta didn't complain. The battery was holding up well, and it performed its main function reliably, just like now when he checked the time. It was around eight o'clock, and he had to be at work at nine sharp, so he would make it.
Putting his phone back in his pocket, Iniesto looked at the road, patiently waiting for the bus. Meanwhile, the teenagers' voices grew a little louder, so much so that he could hear snippets of their conversation. One guy with curly hair was pointing at the screen, explaining something passionately to his friends.
"Did you see this stream?!" the guy said, laughing and waving his phone around.
"Dude, his gaming skills are insane! I even subscribed!" replied another boy wearing a white cap.
"I almost fell asleep yesterday, but damn, when he started streaming..." muttered the last of their group, who had headphones hanging around his neck.
Iniesta frowned. "Stream...?" The word sounded foreign, as if from another world, or was it just some new slang? He looked back and saw three teenagers sitting on the railing, gesturing and laughing.
"Stream... stream..." He rolled the word around in his head, as if tasting it, glancing at the flying interface where the word was displayed. "Stream? Streamer? Or what is it anyway?" Taking a slow breath, he tried not to look like an old man out of touch with the times — even though he was — and slowly stepped toward the teenagers, stopping at a close enough distance without invading their personal space, and coughed to get their attention.
"Excuse me, guys..." His voice sounded dry but polite. "Sorry to interrupt, but could you explain to me what a 'stream' is?" He tried to speak as calmly as possible, not betraying his confusion.
Silence. One raised an eyebrow, the other smirked.
"Seriously?" The guy with the phone glanced at him sideways. "Well, it's when you're online, a live broadcast. You turn on the camera, and everyone watches what you're doing."
"Like TV, but on the internet," added the other one with the cap, typing something and showing him a blogger who was playing a video game live right now. Iniesta looked at it with curiosity, particularly at the lines of text. He pointed at it and asked,
"What is this text?"
"It's a comment," shrugged the third, as if it were self-evident. "You write your thoughts about the video and click send. It floats among the other comments."
Iniesta frowned, staring at the lines of text that flashed and then disappeared, giving way to new ones.
"So... people can write all this right during the broadcast?" he said slowly, trying to understand the mechanics of the scrolling comments.
"Yeah," the guy smiled, "that's right. Look, someone's writing, 'Awesome, go for it!' and another one, 'Ugh, what a bummer.'" He poked the screen with his finger, as if demonstrating the obvious.
Iniesta noticed a number flash on the screen, adding to the number above the piggy bank icon. The guy with the headphones, anticipating the question, pointed to the icon and explained:
"These are donations — a kind of tip that people send to streamers to support them financially or simply because they like them. You decide how much to donate."
"Another new youth word!" Inesto complained mentally, noticing once again that the new generation loves to come up with their own names for everything. Sit and guess what they mean.
"Donations..." Iniesto repeated the word aloud, as if tasting it. It seemed as foreign and absurd to him as "stream." "So... you can send money?"
"Of course," the teenager with headphones grinned. "That's how bloggers make a living. The more popular you are, the more donates you get. And the more donates you get, the more money you make."
Iniesta frowned but nodded, beginning to understand this entertaining profession. He was about to thank the guys when one of them suddenly asked,
"Why are you so interested in this?" The boy looked at him with slight confusion, frowning slightly.
Iniesto was taken aback, not expecting the question. He felt as if the strangers' gazes were burning through him. He looked away, coughed, and put on a polite smile:
"Just..." No good ideas came to mind. Should he mention the flying square? They would immediately think he was crazy, which he couldn't allow. So he blurted out the first thing that came to mind:
"This... may sound strange, but I decided to try my hand at this," he exhaled, feeling how false the words sounded even to himself.
There was a moment of silence. The teenagers exchanged glances. One burst out laughing, but the other perked up:
"Seriously? You want to stream?" His eyes lit up with curiosity. "What exactly? Games? Reactions? Maybe IRL?"
"IR... what?" Iniesta asked mechanically.
"Well... like 'in real life,'" explained the guy with the phone. "Just turn on the camera and show what you're doing. Even like this: sitting, drinking coffee, talking about something. People watch, comment. That's it."
Iniesto felt an unpleasant twinge under his ribs. "Sitting and doing something while people watch..." An image of a floating screen popped into his head, like an invisible spectator forever following him.
He swallowed and forced himself to smile:
"I guess so. Something... like that."
"Wow!" The guy with the headphones perked up. "Then you need a camera, a microphone, and an account on the platform. I can show you if you want."
Iniesto nodded more out of politeness than desire. He felt he had gone too far, but it was too late to back out.
"Go ahead, show me," said Inesto, trying to sound interested, even though he felt anxious inside. He glanced at the panel floating to the side. It flickered slightly, as if winking, but the text remained unchanged: "[Waiting for streamer user. To activate, say 'Accept']."
The guy with the headphones opened the app on his phone and began to show him.
"Here, look," he tapped the screen, where platform icons flashed. "This is Twitch, this is YouTube, and this is StreamSphere — a new thing, there's some crazy stuff going on there. You create an account, set up your camera, and that's it — you're on the air. People connect, write in the chat, throw donations.
Iniesta stared at the screen, but his thoughts were confused. The word "StreamSphere" cut through his ears like an echo of the inscription on his dashboard. He involuntarily clenched his fist in his pocket, where the handkerchief lay.
"Um... can anyone watch?" he asked, trying to keep his voice steady.
"Yeah," the teenager shrugged in response. "If the stream is public, then the whole world can watch. But you can also make it private, only for subscribers. That's for advanced users, though."
Iniesta nodded slowly, feeling a chill run down his spine. He imagined someone — thousands, millions — watching him drink coffee, wash dishes, talk to Sophie. What if they were already watching? What if this panel wasn't just his "ailment," but... a camera? That in itself was ridiculous. Although maybe it was some kind of newfangled technology, from Tesla or other companies?
"What if..." He paused, searching for words. "What if someone is streaming without knowing it?"
The teenagers exchanged glances again. Kyle narrowed his eyes, as if trying to figure out whether Iniesta was joking or not.
"Well... that's strange," he finally said. "That doesn't happen. To stream, you have to start the broadcast yourself. A camera, software, all that stuff. You can't do it without it."
"What if... someone else started it?" Iniesto felt his throat tighten. He immediately began to regret asking the question.
The guy with the phone laughed:
"Is that possible if you've been hacked or something? Well, theoretically, but that's just paranoia."
"Yeah," the other one chimed in, "unless you're in some kind of secret program!" He chuckled, but Iniesta didn't smile.
He muttered something like "thanks" and hurried away. His heart was pounding. The morning air on August 30, still warm but with a hint of autumn, seemed thick as syrup. The panel floated nearby.
Iniesto stopped at the bus stop, staring at the asphalt. Thirteen. Who are they? What do they see? He remembered Sophie, her phone, her anime, her YouTube. She knew this world — the world of streams, donations, chats. Maybe she knows more? Maybe she...
The bus pulled up, interrupting his thoughts. Inesto stepped inside, trying not to look at the panel and not to attract the attention of other passengers, until the doors slammed shut behind him with a dull metallic sound. But deep down, he felt something disturbing. A strange feeling in his chest, causing only discomfort, caused by the realization that someone was watching him right now, and maybe there were many of these uninvited spectators? Just the thought of it made his stomach churn. As a person who did not like to stand out and attract attention, the idea of becoming the object of attention of a large number of people was terrible. Not to mention that it violated his rights as a human being to privacy, inviolability of private life, personal and family secrets, protection of honor and dignity... Wait...
He seriously tried to give all this the appearance of "legality," as if what was happening before his eyes was required to comply with the Constitution and international conventions.
"The right to privacy... the right to secrecy of correspondence..." he mentally recited, like a newsreader on a legal program.
And the longer he repeated these words, the more absurd they sounded. What "secrecy of correspondence" if he was talking to a sign floating in front of his nose? What "privacy" if we were talking about an imaginary square with the word "Accepted" written on it?
He caught himself almost wanting to laugh. Bitterly and angrily. Because it turned out that he was seriously trying to squeeze his own illness into the framework of human rights. As if psychosis was obliged to respect his honor and dignity, and delusional visions were obliged to act strictly within the framework of the law.
"The next step is to complain to the prosecutor's office about hallucinations?" — a sarcastic thought flashed through his mind. — "Or maybe file a class action lawsuit? But where to find the other plaintiffs..."
Sarcasm didn't make it any easier, but at least it gave the illusion of control and a reason to laugh at the problem. Laughter is the best medicine.
He took a deep breath, looking at the foggy bus window. It reflected a tired face, slightly emaciated, with shadows under the eyes. And in the reflection, of course, there was no panel, only emptiness.
Iniesta pressed his lips together.
"Yes, of course. Personal space violated. Breaking the law. Great. Just try to prove that to a doctor, let alone a court."
The thought made him feel sick again. He wanted to skip work, citing health reasons. As soon as he thought about it, his hand automatically reached for his phone. He looked at it, wondering whether to text his boss: "I'm not feeling well, I'm taking sick leave." His fingers hovered over the screen, but never touched the keyboard. His employer knew about his illness, plus he was an old acquaintance with whom he had a good and trusting relationship. He was the first person Iniesta told about his illness, in case he had to take sick leave.
But every time he was about to write the message, he felt paralyzed. How could he explain that it wasn't a headache or high blood pressure, but that the panel was hanging in front of his eyes again? How could he clearly tell someone, even someone who understood, that the reason for his absence was "the feeling that the whole world is watching me"?
It was too absurd. Even to a friend, even to someone who knew about his diagnosis, it was embarrassing to admit this directly.
"And why?" Iniesta thought irritably. "You can't call and say, 'Sorry, I have a square in front of my eyes. It sounds like a drunkard's excuse — 'the bottle opened itself.'" His responsible side simply wouldn't allow it, and no matter how tempting the idea of sick leave was, Inesto understood that it was not a solution.
His job at the post office, with its monotonous rhythm of sorting letters and parcels, was his anchor. Without it, he risked drowning in thoughts of the panel, of Sophie, of that damn "streamer flow."
He put his phone in his pocket and leaned his forehead against the cool glass of the bus. The morning of August 30 was clear, but a light fog still clung to the streets, reminding him that summer was ending. Tomorrow Sophie would start packing her last things, and the day after tomorrow... she would leave. To Manchester, to university, to a new life. And he would be left alone — with the floating square and its sinister "users."
The bus bounced over a pothole, rocking him toward the window. The panel trembled slightly in the air, as if reflecting the jolt. Inesto closed his eyes and took a deep breath.
"Enough. I'll work for the day. I'll go home. And in the evening... in the evening, I'll talk to Sophie. She's definitely no stranger to your streams, donations, and chats. Maybe she can at least translate all this into human language."
He opened his eyes again, trying to focus on the familiar. Through the noise of the bus — the hum of the engine, snippets of conversation, the beep of someone's phone, the usual noise. Which could have been soothing if it weren't for the feeling of phantom breathing behind his back. Not the people on the bus — he could feel them, hear them, see them out of the corner of his eye. But others. Those who might be watching him through this floating panel.
He involuntarily began to imagine crazy scenarios about where this square came from and who was watching him on the other side. His imagination painted pictures: secret laboratories where scientists in white coats frowned over complex instruments; agents in translucent glasses recording his every move; either emissaries from another planet or marketers of a new social network testing "live" advertising. The options alternated, becoming either more absurd or frighteningly plausible.
He allowed these scenarios to flash through his mind only because it was easier to keep his distance that way — as if, by giving free rein to his imagination, he could shift responsibility from the real to the imaginary. The sarcastic part of his mind whispered, "Yeah, right, Iniesta, you're being broadcast on intergalactic television. Take off your hat, it's customary to bow in front of the camera." And he couldn't help but grin, feeling the smile slightly ease the tension.
But the laughter didn't last long. The chill in his chest didn't go away: not from laughter, not from logic, not from bread-and-butter platitudes. He took a deep breath and explained to himself a simple truth — one that didn't make it any easier, but made it clearer: until he found out for himself what this panel was, it would remain a problem. He couldn't escape it with hide-and-seek and self-irony. Something had to be done.
The bus stopped at the next stop; the doors swung open with their usual creak. Iniesta stood up, pulled his bag closer, and, looking at the panel, gathered his thoughts. For a brief moment, he felt a strange determination — not the heroic kind, where the hero goes against universal evil, nor the fiery kind, where they fight to the bitter end. It was quiet and stubborn, like in his younger years, when he had to get up early and go to work, but with a touch of light adventurism, as if at the beginning of a journey toward adventure.
For a moment, he imagined himself as a character in a Jules Verne novel — like Phileas Fogg, who, despite all doubts, set off on a trip around the world, guided only by a stubborn belief in his own strength.
"Today I'll just work," he muttered under his breath, more for appearances than out of conviction. "And in the evening... we'll see."
He stepped out into the cool air and headed for the post office, carrying his bag of letters and the feeling that someone was still watching him. But now it wasn't just an illusion or his imagination — it was a challenge he was going to take on his own way: slowly and carefully.