Не чіпляй

Sometimes the heart resembles an old radio station - it makes noise, picks up the echoes of other people's voices, and suddenly utters a phrase that you no longer want to hear. It seems that you are about to catch the right wave, explain everything, and it will become easier. But the airwaves go silent, and what remains is silence - thick, viscous, in which reality replaces sleep, and tears replace nausea.

Love here is not a drama, but a postscript - a little regret, a little clarity. Everything heals as it should, just slowly and with the background noise of memories. And somewhere in the middle of this inner night, a tired, almost tender voice sounds: don't touch my heart. Enough is enough.