Обманула

Love here flares up like a match – quickly, brightly, and with a burn. The air smells of autumn, resentment, and something metallic, as if the heart can truly ring with pain. Words cut, roses prick, and leaves fall exactly in sync with trust. Everything is dramatic, in the Russian way, with a sense of strain and a touch of theater - like a scene where the curtain has already fallen, but the actor still can't leave. And yes, in this story, "she" is to blame, of course. The one with the red hair, the white dress, and the eyes that even the wallpaper in my bedroom dreams about now. But beneath all that loud "betrayal," you can hear something else - not anger, but desperate bewilderment at how love has once again turned into tragedy.