16 Marzo

Love didn't end with a scream, but with the sound of a door closing. Everything seems clear, but there's a strange aftertaste, as if a draft just blew through and the room got colder. There was neither despair nor pleading in his voice, just a tired "okay." That stage when you're not looking for someone to blame, but simply realise the play is over and you can turn off the lights. There's a touch of madness in this rhythm, the madness of a person who still feels but is already letting go. He doesn't break, he doesn't tear, he just leaves with the quiet dignity that comes when there's nothing left to prove. And she... she seems to be already looking for next March, the next "maybe it will work out." But who said March is even going to arrive?