Pensé

When the pain subsides, a peculiar emptiness remains - not a dark void, but one with a faint scent of whiskey and a muffled echo of unspoken words. There is no room for drama here: only a calm realization that it is over, and perhaps for the best. The music seems to laugh through gritted teeth at the very notion of “suffering for an ex” - because how long can you do that? It was, it's gone, we've forgotten. Well, almost. Sometimes memory still slips in a face in a glass, but now it's just a habit, not a wound. It's a kind of growing up to the rhythm, where sadness is not a burden, but a style.