花火

There are moments on the border between sleep and wakefulness when the world seems to hold its breath. Echoes of other people's voices, past promises, and absurd attempts to hold on to what is inherently slippery still linger in my head. Summer fireworks are in no hurry to explode into the sky, but inside, hundreds of your own fireworks light up - from laughter to quiet tears, which for some reason always seem appropriate on a warm night.

The music breathes with the smell of sand, the crunch of apple peel, and the chill of a random breeze. It hangs on a thin thread of nostalgia, suspended somewhere under the stars, allowing us to look down on all this touching awkwardness of feelings. And even if memories crumble like children's sandcastles, sparks remain, so bright that they cannot be dismissed.