Paris

Love sometimes turns into likes and stories - like, there's a smile in the photo, and the locations are gorgeous, but inside, a quiet voice whispers, ‘It's not right.’ The music glides between confession and sarcasm: other people's embraces don't warm you, other people's cities don't save you, and yet your hand still reaches for the familiar number.

There is no room for pathos here - only an honest ‘we were both unloved, so let's at least save each other.’ Paris becomes not a mark on the map, but a promise that happiness can be simple: the sun, a bed on an island, and the one with whom you stop playing other people's roles.