Переболела

Sometimes love leaves quietly, like autumn, which imperceptibly washes away summer with rain, rather than slamming the door. Everything seems to be still alive: the phone remembers the number, the memory remembers the smell, and the heart remembers the address, but the warmth is gone, and now all that remains are posts, playlists, and sleepless nights, where the same name goes round and round.

Here, feelings don't scream - they smoulder like a cigarette on a windowsill. And in this ash there is tenderness, pain and a little self-irony: after all, who said that love must be eternal? It's just that sometimes it passes, leaving behind autumn in the soul and a quiet request - let at least spring come after winter.