Kelingan Mantan

Love is like an old cassette tape: it hisses a little, sometimes chews up the film, but it still plays the same melody that makes you tremble inside. There was a time when "forever" meant something - pure, honest, almost sacred. Now only echoes remain: voices, fragments of phrases, a slightly muffled rhythm of memories. He sings as if through the smoke of an evening campfire - about how everything was simple until it became complicated. Promises that didn't stand the test of time, Mom's "don't do that," and endless attempts to be strong when the heart gave up a long time ago. There is reconciliation in this sound - not with the pain, but with the fact that pain is also part of love. A little sadness, a little weariness, a little warmth - as if he had resigned himself, but was still waiting. Because even if it didn't work out, the song still plays.