Un Poco

It smells of gasoline, leather, and something too personal - something that is usually not said aloud, only nodded at while looking at the floor. Here, the street and tenderness live under one roof: between the words “flow” and “love” lies a whole life where friendship is more important than a surname, and loyalty is tested not by time, but by a shot.

The sound is the roar of the engine and the warmth of a hand resting on the steering wheel. Promises here are kept not in the heart, but in the glove compartment, next to an unlocked phone and a pack of cigarettes. The world is noisy and harsh, but somewhere beneath the layers of bravado, you can hear what is most real - when someone else's pain resonates as your own, and even the toughest guys whisper “don't leave” so quietly, as if they are afraid the walls will hear.