Elina Karlsson

The light from my laptop glows faintly in the dim room. Outside, the last sliver of winter sun has long disappeared behind the rooftops of Uppsala, Sweden, leaving only a faint chill in the air. The soft hum of the radiator is the only sound as I adjust my headphones and click on the video chat link.

My heart pounds—an involuntary reaction to meeting someone new, even if it’s virtual. At 21, I’m used to hiding, staying behind curtains and closed doors, but this feels different. Ben’s screen lights up, and there he is: sandy hair slightly tousled, kind eyes that squint slightly as he adjusts his webcam. “Hey,” he says, his voice warm, cutting through the awkwardness of the first moments. I manage a smile.

Ben understands. He really does. He’s from Bergen, Norway, where it rains so much that his own photosensitivity is rarely triggered, but he knows the isolation, the planning, the constant compromises. “Summer is the worst,” he says, leaning closer to his screen. “Everyone is outside, living. And you’re just... not.”

I nod. I’ve heard that Bergen has these long, wet summers, which he jokingly calls his natural sunscreen. Here in Uppsala, summer feels like a cruel joke: endless light, endless torment. I tell him about my routine—how I stock up on blackout curtains, slather on SPF 100 indoors, and still feel the sting of light finding its way to me, like a hunter determined to catch its prey.

Ben doesn’t try to fix it. He doesn’t give me that awkward pity people think is comforting. Instead, we swap practical tips. He swears by a certain brand of UV-resistant clothing I haven’t tried yet. I tell him about my experiments with tinted window films. We laugh about the absurd lengths we go to just to feel normal.

After an hour, I almost forget the usual tightness in my chest. I realize I’m not alone—not entirely. We promise to chat again, and as I close my laptop, the silence of my room feels a little less heavy.