ROMANTIC

In the smoky “nine,” the gaze smolders, as if all the rules have been left by the wayside - a romantic with the smell of gasoline and a slight audacity. Here, love looks like a cunning feint: a million roses won't save you from the family's sidelong glances and the label “albino” in the family album.

It sounds like a conversation in a nighttime courtyard: promises are loud, choices are ridiculous (career growth or a driveway moose?), and the heart stubbornly pulls toward simple romantic touches. A little rough, but warm; a little punk, but sincere - and in the end, it all whispers quietly: “you are my romantic.”