Best Friend

Love, in which everything was “real” - with a hoodie that fits better than its owner, with morning coffee that smells of trust, and with laughter after which you can no longer return to loneliness. And then - silence, in which even music sounds different.

The song is not a drama, but a quiet, burnt-out light. When you're not angry, not arguing, you just understand: both of you are alive, but “we” are dead. And yet the same scenes flash through your mind - Sunday evenings, random phrases, breathing behind the door. It's strange: it seems like everything is over, but the memory still warms you, like someone else's sweater that you don't want to give back for some reason.