春雷

Love sometimes doesn't come like a bright melody, but like a thunderstorm with a human face - blue eyes, lightning in the voice, and silence after the strike. It all seems simple: a touch, a breath, a glance. But every movement is like walking barefoot on glass. It's scary to destroy something that is barely hanging on the edge of sleep and pain. Everything about this feeling is both fleeting and beautiful: black hair in motion, skin like light on snow, words that hesitate to become sounds. And somewhere between the scent of spring and the pain of a heart that beats too strongly, silence is born, resembling a confession. The one in which everything has already been said. And as the flowers swirl in the air, it seems the world itself is simply tired of storms and has decided to pretend to be gentle for a while. But even knowing it's an illusion, you still want to stay in it a little longer - until the very end, until all the storms inside have dried up.