Небо

Life beats to a rhythm that throws you off balance - sometimes a waltz, sometimes a marathon, sometimes an empty winter where even the memory of warmth is buried under snow. It's as if someone suddenly turned off the sound, leaving only the echo of familiar movements. And yet, strange music plays inside: a farewell that has lasted longer than the meeting itself.

There is bitterness in the words of departure, but no tragedy. Rather, there is a slight doom of someone who has already understood that there is no turning back, no matter how much they want to stay. And in this there is a paradoxical freedom: when you lose something, you suddenly begin to notice that the sky is not a ceiling at all, but a habit that you can also grow into.