Page 6 of Rhythm and Rapture (Behind the Lens #5)

She's not wrong. Six months ago I was a desperate graduate student calculating whether I could afford both groceries and medication.

Today I'm discussing experimental cancer treatments that I can actually fund, while receiving mysterious messages from musicians who apparently watch educational adult content in their spare time.

"You know what the best part is?" Rachyl continues, clearly enjoying this revelation.

"You've literally found a way to be exactly who you are—brilliant, analytical, fiercely independent—while solving problems that seemed impossible.

You haven't compromised your values or your intellect. You've just expanded your audience."

"From undergraduates who don't appreciate molecular chemistry to adults who tip generously for the same information delivered with more... visual aids."

"Exactly. You're still a teacher, Sabina. You're just teaching people who are more motivated to learn."

As I sit in this campus coffee shop, surrounded by the familiar chaos of academic life, holding a message from a rock star who apparently appreciates my work, I realize Rachyl might be right.

I haven't betrayed my principles or compromised my identity.

I've simply found a way to use all aspects of myself—intellectual, creative, and yes, physical—to protect what matters most.

And for the first time in years, the future feels like something to anticipate rather than survive.

"So," Rachyl says with a grin that suggests trouble, "are you going to text him back?"

Before I can respond, my phone buzzes again. This time it's from Lorna:

Lorna: Hey superstar, can you come into the office today? Anytime before 9pm works. Want to discuss something exciting with you. I know Soda Springs is far, but we'll cover your EV charging, several pounds of snacks, and dinner. Worth the drive, I promise. See you soon! - L

"Speak of the devil," I mutter, showing Rachyl the message. "Lorna wants me to come in today."

“Soda Springs…That's a three-hour drive," Rachyl says, already pulling out her own phone. "I've got Kael, don't even ask. Go find out what your boss wants."

"You sure?"

"Sabina, you just told me a rock star is sliding into your DMs about your adult content. Yes, I'm sure. I need to live vicariously through your suddenly interesting life." She grins. "Besides, Kael and I have a date with dinosaur nuggets and that chemistry set you got him."

"No explosions," I warn.

"No promises." Her expression shifts suddenly, the teasing melting into something more serious. "But Sabina? Whatever this is, whoever you're becoming in this new world... just be careful, okay?"

The unexpected shift in tone makes me pause, my automatic “I’ll be fine,’ already forming on my lips—the same reassurance I've given her a hundred times before when she's worried about me. It's my default response, as reflexive as breathing.

"I'm always careful.” I frown slightly.

"No," she says softly. "You're always in survival mode. There's a difference."

I open my mouth to argue, then close it. Because she's right, and we both know it. Being careful implies having choices, weighing options, and making measured decisions. I don't do that. I've never had the luxury of measured risks. It's always been all or nothing, desperation, or disaster.

I calculate minimum effective doses of risk like I'm titrating a dangerous chemical—just enough to keep us alive, never enough to actually live.

"I..." I start, then stop, unsure how to respond.

"I know," Rachyl says, reading my silence. "Just... maybe think about it? On your drive?"

I nod, throat suddenly tight.

"Now go, before traffic gets worse. And oh,” she grins, “ please tell me you’re going to message back.”

I laugh. I look at Roman's message again, then at Lorna's. Something is shifting in my universe, tectonic plates realigning into patterns I can't quite see yet.

“Yeah," I say, standing up, surprising myself with the certainty in my voice. "I think I am.”

I type out a quick response as I'm leaving the coffee shop, which took a few minutes of me ensuring Rachyl knows the play-by-play of what she is now calling my 'rockstar trope.'

The Hidden Chemist: Bold of you to assume I'd collaborate with musicians who've been lurking in my streams But, I admit, your timing is interesting. I was just having a conversation about expanding my definition of acceptable variables in ongoing experiments. So, for the sake of curiosity, I’m listening.

What kind of collaboration did you have in mind? -S

The Hidden Chemist: Also, I am going to need some proof that you're actually who you say you are. For all I know, you're three creeps in a basement pretending to be musicians. Video response required.

Ten minutes and a quick stop at the gas station later (where I grab several bags of chips that I normally wouldn't keep in the house because of Kael's necessary diet and the little gremlin's extreme talent for hearing a bag of snacks open from three rooms away), I'm in my car heading for the 101, phone propped in the dashboard holder.

Their response comes through just as I'm merging onto the highway—a video notification that makes my pulse jump.

I wait until I hit the inevitable LA traffic crawl before watching. Once, then twice, a smile spreading across my face despite myself. Roman's songwriter hair is exactly as disheveled as I imagined, and the way he runs his hand through it when he's nervous...

"Ball's in your court, S," he says at the end, and something flutters in my stomach.

Before I can overthink it, I hit record. The three-hour drive to Behind the Lens stretches ahead of me, and I already know I'm going to spend it in conversation with three musicians who've somehow gotten under my skin without ever meeting them.