Shamballa

Somewhere between the smoke of the club and the sound of an iPhone at the bottom of a bag, that very night remained - slightly cloying, slightly loud, like someone else's perfume on a shirt. Everything was simple in it: glances caught each other faster than thoughts could turn on. Then there was no need for words, only rhythm and closeness on the exhale. And now there is nostalgia with a slight taste of “it could have been.” He is a bad man without romance, she is a bad gyal with character, and neither of them has the right to be weak. Only memories that turn on like a favorite track at four in the morning - when it seems that everything can still be rewound.