No te borro

Sometimes memory is like an old phone where you can't bring yourself to delete photos. Even though everything seems clear: there's poison disguised as kisses, and a smile that hides nothing but deceit. But your finger still slides across the screen, as if hoping that at least one message will suddenly become different. Your head is in chaos, your heart is a circus without an intermission, and your playlist is playing a song about karma, which, as always, ‘will sort itself out.’

And even though pride hisses ‘delete,’ there is still room inside for those three seconds of happiness that smelled like the truth. Only now they come with a new filter - with irony and raised eyebrows.