Забирай свої речі

The room seems to have paused - a soft cat on a blanket, a mug still warm on the table, and a thin web of wires that now seem more important than dramatic confessions. Other people's things look out of place, like old entries in someone else's diary; all that remains of them is an empty sound and a cold cup of milk - a metaphor that asks for no response. The nightly routine - a little cigarette smoke in the morning, a glass of water on the bedside table, a quiet walk to the stars - turns the breakup into a set of small, almost cozy rituals.

The guitar is back on my lap, and instead of mourning, a quiet, ironic drama emerges - a song about how life can be simpler: walking, smiling at passersby, not getting stuck in explanations. Friends listen, hearing not tears, but calm confidence: home is like a stage, the world is so wonderful that you can always see it from a new perspective. All this lightness is not an escape, but a neatly packed suitcase of new habits, where there is finally only room for what warms you.