Remaja

The sweetness of youth here smells not of perfume, but of dusty film stock - the kind where the frames shake slightly, but that only makes it warmer. The guitar plucks the strings as if caressing memories, and somewhere off to the side, someone laughs, pouring lemonade into plastic cups. Everything is too sincere, too naive not to believe in eternity - because at seventeen, no one knows yet that it doesn't exist.

The music rolls gently, like the sun on the eaves: a little nostalgia, a pinch of embarrassment and a boundless belief that ‘forever’ is about today. And even if it turns out later that the world does not belong to the two of them, in this moment it really is theirs. Completely.