Θ. Macarena

Love here is like a party after midnight: everyone is dancing, but no one really remembers why they came. A little cynicism, a little tenderness, and a pinch of confession to the beat, where even pain moves to the rhythm of the Macarena. Between the lines - weariness from one's own games and the sad irony of how easy it is to confuse passion with habit. Everything seems fun: laughter, clubs, the clinking of glasses. And then - silence and the thought that maybe it really is better without him. Or just quieter.