I have a social media addiction. I’m fully ready to admit that. I cannot count the number of times mornings that should have been relaxed and easy have turned into stressful, breakfast-skipping sprints to get to class on time because I found myself dragged into the rabbit hole of videos on r/kidsarestupid or some other thing like that.
I’ll admit I need to show more self-control. But here I am again, scrolling through Instagram reels, muttering “one more” under my breath over and over as I lay in bed.
I eventually pull myself out of bed, turn my phone off, and set it on my desk. Making my bed, I glance at the clock. I did better today. I still have an hour before my first class starts. I can grab breakfast and work before heading to Esmun for my 10:00 a.m. class.
I quickly get dressed, picking a blue polo and khaki pants from my closet and attempting to comb my hair. I put my phone in my pocket along with my AirPods case and stuff my laptop and its charger into my backpack. Slipping into a coat, I head out of my dorm into the cold autumn morning. The leaves outside are in their full display of red and yellow, prompting me to pull out my phone and take a picture to send to my mother later. She loves fall, especially since we never got changing seasons at home.
Putting in my AirPods, I scroll through my podcast list until I land on the new episode of “Welcome to the Show.” Turning it on, I walk down the sidewalk toward the Dining Hall. Welcome to the Show wasn’t usually a walk-and-listen podcast, being a more suspenseful, dramatic type, but the season had just ended, and the creators were doing special episodes and director’s commentaries as the next season was being developed.
I eat in the bustling dining hall alone, my back to the other students hurrying to get to or just coming out of class. I watch out the window as the grounds crew rake the leaves as they continue to fall on the quad. In my ear, one of the show’s voice actresses talks about the scream she did for the role that required her to get a better microphone and soundproofing set up in her house. I laugh to myself as she describes her husband running into her recording room, thinking she had seriously hurt herself, only to discover it was her character, Abby, coming face to face with the murderer in a take that overwhelmed her microphone and ruined the audio.
Finishing breakfast, I hoist my backpack up again and leave the dining hall, dodging around the other students as they carry plates full of food to their own seats. Cutting across the quad over the damp ground and fallen leaves, I enter Esmun and take the elevator to the fifth floor, entering the classroom with 10 minutes to spare.
Not bad.
Dr. Lionheart hasn’t arrived yet, though that wasn’t surprising. The disorganized man seemed to rush between classes as much as his students did, hurrying to either get another cup of coffee or pick up something from his office he forgot he needed for class that day. My friends would joke that he was just a student in a professor’s body.
I find my seat and scroll through Instagram again, waiting for the class to begin. Around me, a few other people chat with each other in quiet voices or scroll through their phones. Nobody was truly excited for class, and who could blame them? Of the sixty students in the class, only 15 need it for their major. For the rest, its just a general education credit that we get and forget.
In my ear, the directors discuss where “Welcome to the Show” will go next season, the new storyline they were planning, and which characters we can be excited to see more of. I am waiting to hear if Roger will be involved in the next season, as the last ended with him being shot by the murderer far outside of town. However, the directors play coy, only mentioning his name once and responding to audience questions about him with a simple “We’ll find out.”
With a start, I realize that the person sitting next to me has shown up and is looking at me expectantly. I must have missed a question they had asked, so I pop one of my earbuds out and look at them.
“Sorry, were you talking to me?” I ask.
“Just saying hi!” they respond. I’m embarrassed to say that I don’t remember their name, so I just smile and return the greeting.
“Oh, hey, how’s it going?”
“I’m good! What are you listening to?”
I always hate that question. Most of the stuff I watch or listen to feels niche, and I hate explaining it to people who ask about it. I consider lying and telling them I was listening to music, but decide to just be vague and honest.
“It’s a murder mystery podcast.” I explain, “It’s stylized to sound like an early radio show, and it’s really good.”
“Ooh, fun!” my neighbor says. “Is that anything like ‘Welcome to the Show’?”
The surprise must have shown on my face because they instantly backtracked.
“Do you know that one? It’s totally fine if you don’t.”
“No, that’s what it is exactly,” I respond, pulling out my phone and showing it to them. Their eyes light up as they smile.
“No way! That’s my favorite show! Is there a new season out yet?”
I take both my earbuds out and turn to face them. I have never met another fan of the show before. Everyone I ask usually has never heard of it or says it’s “not for them.”
“No, just listening to the director’s commentary, Abby’s voice actor was talking about breaking her microphone.”
“I listened to that a few days ago!” They respond, “Imagine her husband just sitting downstairs and hearing his wife scream bloody murder.”
I laugh.
“Yeah, poor guy.”
Dr. Lionheart came rushing into the class and began setting up his laptop.
“I’m sorry I’m late, guys.” he says, “I realized I had your tests graded from last week and needed to rush back to my office and grab them.”
After assuring the professor that we didn’t mind, my neighbor turns back to me.
“I had no idea that you liked that show too!” My neighbor says, “We’ll have to meet up sometime when the new season comes out and watch an episode together. I always theorize over what’s going on, but my roommate couldn’t care less.”
“That would be fun! I’ve never listened to the show with anyone before.”
Dr. Lionheart finishes setting up his computer and claps his hands.
“Alright,” he says, “If I can ask for your attention, we’ll get started.”
“We’ll talk about it later!” My neighbor says, I nod and put away my earbuds and phone. Taking out my notes, I turn my attention to Dr. Lionheart, who begins searching through his mess of files to find today’s PowerPoint slides.
******
Three weeks pass, and nothing really changes. Every once in a while, my neighbor and I talk about the new director’s commentary or whatever news was released about the next season, but the invitation to watch together was mostly forgotten as the school year went on for both of us. Since we only share one class, it’s easy to forget the smaller, less important things during my transition to college life.
However, during class, the day after the directors announced the date the new season would air, my neighbor taps me on the shoulder.
“You want to listen to the new season’s first episode together?”
I smile, remembering the suggestion they had made a few weeks prior.
“Sure!” I say, “We could meet in Den’s main lounge and watch it the day it comes out?”
My neighbor nods.
“Do you have any theories about the season yet?” They ask.
“I don’t do theories until the first episode comes out; they can really easily alter voice lines for trailers, so there’s a high chance that nothing we’ve seen yet is even real.”
My neighbor nods, and Dr. Lionheart rushes into the classroom again. He had broken his laptop the week before by dropping it on his way back to his office, and the loaner one the school gave him was causing all sorts of trouble for the poor man.
“Sorry, guys.” He says, “I brought my broken laptop’s charger and needed to run back to my office since this thing was dead.”
“You should give me your number so we can set a specific time.” My neighbor says.
“Yeah, for sure,” I respond. I take their phone and quickly fill out my contact information. After handing it back, I take my notes and prepare for class as Dr. Lionheart plugs in their laptop and tries to turn it on again.
It was another week before the new season began. Seeing it on my Spotify page, I text my neighbor.
‘It’s out!’
‘I saw!!’ they respond, ‘What’s your class schedule today? Do you want to watch together?’
‘I’m free this evening. Do you want to meet up in the lounge at 7:00?’
‘works for me!’
I went about my day as usual, doing my best not to turn on the show in my free time, instead listening to old episodes and director’s commentaries again. As the time went by, I became more excited. I had never watched this show with another person before, especially not someone who liked it as much as I did. It would be a new experience, but I can’t wait to see what it’s like.
I meet with my neighbor at the main entrance to Den, and we go to the lounge.
“I have everything set up,” they say.
They sit at a small, four-person table, gesturing for me to sit across from them. On the table, between the two unused chairs, is their MacBook, with the first episode of “Welcome to the Show” season 4 loaded up and ready to go.
“We’re going to look insane.” I joke, “Two college students listening to a radio show like they’re from the 1940s.”
My neighbor laughs.
“It’s not the weirdest thing to happen in Den.”
I agree with them, and they press play, starting the podcast as I lean back in my chair.
“Managing relationships can be hard…” says the voice from the speakers. My neighbor presses skip, quickly jumping through the advertisement.
“Better…Thera-…go…help…Welc-…day,” the speaker stuttered.
Realizing they had gone too far, they rewind a bit.
“You find yourself once more in front of a small sign welcoming you back to the sleepy town of Lynn Valley. The night, dark as it was, is broken by the morning sun, reflecting off the houses beyond the sign. Windows slowly light up as the residents of the Valley wake up to begin their day…”
We listen as the narrator continues, bringing the audience down into the town and towards the police station at the center. The first episode is never overly dramatic, mainly focusing on the town and its characters. Occasionally, my neighbor or I say something in response to the action coming through the speakers.
“Mrs. Fairfeild must have taken over the shop,” my neighbor comments.
“Or someone bought it,” I respond, “I can’t imagine the Fairfeilds staying after what happened to their daughter.”
They nod, turning to greet a friend as they come through the main doors of the lounge. The show continues, taking us to the local hospital, where, to my delight, Roger is in stable condition after his altercation with the murderer.
“That’s going to be interesting.” My neighbor comments, “I can’t imagine the murderer is going to be happy that he survived.”
Soon after, the episode ends with dispatch calling the Lynn Valley Police Department and sending a unit to the school.
“Something’s not quite right…”
Spotify immediately jumps to another ad.
“John Desmins wants to take away your freedoms–”
“And that’s enough of that,” my neighbor says, cutting the political campaign ad short by closing the tab, “Sander needs to get a better campaign slogan than “I’m better than Desmins.””
“Well, if it works, it works,” I respond, scooting back in my chair to stretch my legs, which had fallen asleep as we listened to the show.
“Well, Sander needs to spend more time addressing his own controversy, or else nobody will believe he’s better than Desmins.”
I look at them with surprise. I never took them for one of THOSE people.
“I feel like any candidate would be better than Desmins. Sander’s controversies can’t hold a candle to the crap that he’s done.”
“Oh…” they respond. Quickly changing the subject, they continue, “Well, anyway, what did you think of the show?”
We discuss the show for a bit, but it’s clear our hearts aren’t in it anymore. A tension has risen between us that wasn’t there before. Thanking them for inviting me, I grab my bag and leave. Walking back to my dorm through the light flurries of snow, I check my phone and instinctively open Instagram.
As usual, my feed is filled with posts from accounts I follow. Most of them are memes and funny screenshots, but there are a few sprinkled in:
‘Jon Desmins calls for a halt to investigations as election draws near.’
‘Will Desmins get another term in the white house? Not if we want our freedoms.’
‘Entitled Traditionist snowflake freaks out over Ubereats delivery driver!’
I was surprised they thought that Sander’s problems were comparable to Desmins. Don’t they watch the news? The only thing discussed is what Desmins did before the allegations came out!
Part of me feels silly for being so upset; we aren’t best friends; we only listen to the same show. And besides, it’s just politics. But I feel tricked, like they were hiding their Traditionist beliefs from me this whole time, tricking me into something, but what?
I enter my dorm, telling myself to calm down. They knew as much as I did about which direction either of us leaned. It wasn’t some ruse; it was just a mistake.
But I know how Traditionalists act. They enter flight or fight mode as soon as they learn you don’t fully ascribe to their beliefs. Either they never talk to me again or go full “education” on me to try and “convert” me to their way of life.
Trying to distract myself, I pull out some homework and sit down, but soon find myself back on Twitter, scrolling endlessly through my feed.
I dread going to class with them again. Sitting next to them is going to be terrible.
******
I get to class before them and heavily consider changing seats. Going entirely across the room seems dramatic, but I would rather not sit next to them anymore. I decide to move one seat back, close enough that it doesn’t seem like I moved, but not right next to them anymore. Setting my stuff down, I sit just as they enter the classroom. Looking at me, they move right to the seat next to me and sit.
I’m an idiot.
Of course, they would base their seat after mine; we had been sitting next to one another all semester.
They look over and smile at me.
“I spent the whole night reading Reddit threads about the new season. Some wild theories are flying around!” they say.
“Oh, Cool,” I respond, pulling my notes out of my bag.
“You okay?”
“Yup, fine, just tired.”
“Alright,” they respond. Their face looks almost concerned. “Do you want to meet up next week and listen to episode two?”
“I’ll see. My schedule is pretty busy.”
“Wednesdays at 7 seemed to work pretty well!”
“We’ll see, something might come up.”
“Oh… Okay.”
Dr. Lionheart comes in, and I open my notes, ignoring them as they slowly turn to the front of the classroom again. Part of me feels bad, but I just feel uncomfortable around people like them. They always assume the worst of people. Hell, they’ve probably already stuck me in one of the stereotype boxes they base all their assumptions on.
Typical Traditionist.
After class ends, they turn back to face me.
“I just realized, aren’t we usually one row up?” they ask.
“Oh yeah, we are.”
“Are you sure you’re okay? You’re not usually like this.”
“I’m fine,” I respond.
“Alright.” they say, unconvinced. “let me know if you need anything.”
“Okay.”
They stand and gather up their stuff, leaving the classroom. They glance over at me one more time as I begin putting things in my own backpack.
I feel guilty again. They seemed genuinely confused by my being so short with them. Am I being the bigger person by being so cold?
But I can’t be friends with someone who doesn’t recognize how terrible Desmins is.
I pack up my stuff and leave the classroom, going down the hall to the other stairwell to avoid running into them again.
The next time we speak is two days later, once again in class. Dr. Lionheart has already rushed in and out, telling us he forgot his book and needs to grab it for discussion today. Snow has begun to pile up outside the window, filling the quad with white.
“Hey,” my neighbor says, “do you want to listen to the next episode of ‘Welcome to the Show’ together like we did last week?”
“I don’t know.”
“Are you mad that I don’t think Sander is a better candidate than Desmins?”
The way they say it makes it seem ridiculous.
“I just don’t know how you can say that.” I respond, “What has Sander done that puts him in line with Desmins?”
My neighbor laughs.
“That’s a super complicated question.” they say, “and I hate talking politics. I’m sorry for making you uncomfortable. I didn’t know how you felt.”
“Well, thanks.”
“If you want, we can watch the next episode together. I promise to only talk about the show. It’s way more interesting than political debates, in my opinion.”
Looking at my neighbor, I debate my options. I don’t agree with their politics, but at the same time, I feel stupid for being so mad at them over one comment that they made. And it was nice to have a person to talk about the show with.
“Alright.” I respond, “Sorry for being so mean. I just thought you wouldn’t want to hang out with me after last time.”
“Well, we gotta figure out what’s going to happen to Roger, don’t we?” my neighbor says.
I chuckle, and Dr. Lionheart runs in, book in hand.
“Sorry for the interruption, guys,” he says, “let’s get back to it.”
Will Fall Writings 