Дзвони

The night-time beeps stretch out like the tape of an old tape recorder – slow, muffled, and involuntarily conveying a pulse that no longer belongs to anyone but the empty room. The phone flies out the window in a senseless protest, but even the shards are powerless to destroy the recording of the voice that is stuck in my head and plays on repeat.

The voice becomes a collection - a preserved melody that fits into my memory and slowly replaces my dreams. Between the laughter of strangers' embraces and the desire to drown in familiar warmth, a strange, aching honesty arises: you can be with anyone, but choosing the one and only ‘call’ is like an old, stretched string that can snap at any moment.

The silence is viscous, like the night after an argument: it does not lose its power in the sunlight, but it perfectly draws fears into familiar loops. And in this almost everyday melancholy, there is a kind of ironic luxury - waiting for a rainy day so that at least a drop of the outside weather justifies the inside storm. After all, a feeling is just a set of signals, but for some reason, sometimes one phone call in the middle of the night is enough to make everything real again.