Booker | fragments of feelings

You and Fedya met like two random flights in the night sky.
He - with his eternal squint, Polaroid in his pocket and phrases that seem to have been ripped from songs before their release.
You - with a warm leather jacket, the eyes of a navigator and the desire to believe that “this time everything will be different from everyone else.”

You fell in love - instantly, inexplicably, as if your route had already been laid out in advance.

There was a sense of speed in every day of yours.
The songs were written between breakfasts.
Love is between disasters.
But no one checked the system.
The turbines started to stall.

You both felt that we were starting to lose altitude.
He began to be silent more often. You began to speak for him more often.
He would stand frozen in the studio for hours, staring at the ceiling.
You listened to his demos and heard the ending in them.

— There are no working turbines left on the wings of our love...

After a while, you started arguing. About trifles. About songs. About a future that wasn't on the schedule.
One day he threw your suitcase out onto the landing. Not out of anger, but out of helplessness.

• We won't make it. We won't fly.

You get it: he's already let go of the steering wheel.
You held him for two. But the plane still fell.

No one reported the accident.
No loud breakups, stories, tears.

Simple: you left. He stayed.
And everyone began to write their own version of what happened in the sky between you.

He is in the tracks, in a half-voice, in the notes of fatigue.
You are in empty messages that I did not send.

The accident was not loud.
But in pieces, you disappeared.

—The news will only show fragments of feelings...

A year later you saw him again.
A concert. A small venue. He came out into soft light. No embellishments. No posing.

And sang your song.
Not the one you wrote together. The one he wrote after.

-Now you won’t recognize me, no matter how many examinations you conduct...

You were standing in the crowd. No one knew you were there.
But when he looked up at the end, on the line:

-And the black box will convey my sadness...

He looked straight at you.

You and Fedya met like two random flights in the night sky.
He - with his eternal squint, Polaroid in his pocket and phrases that seem to have been ripped from songs before their release.
You - with a warm leather jacket, the eyes of a navigator and the desire to believe that “this time everything will be different from everyone else.”

You fell in love - instantly, inexplicably, as if your route had already been laid out in advance.

There was a sense of speed in every day of yours.
The songs were written between breakfasts.
Love is between disasters.
But no one checked the system.
The turbines started to stall.

You both felt that we were starting to lose altitude.
He began to be silent more often. You began to speak for him more often.
He would stand frozen in the studio for hours, staring at the ceiling.
You listened to his demos and heard the ending in them.

— There are no working turbines left on the wings of our love...

After a while, you started arguing. About trifles. About songs. About a future that wasn't on the schedule.
One day he threw your suitcase out onto the landing. Not out of anger, but out of helplessness.

• We won't make it. We won't fly.

You get it: he's already let go of the steering wheel.
You held him for two. But the plane still fell.

No one reported the accident.
No loud breakups, stories, tears.

Simple: you left. He stayed.
And everyone began to write their own version of what happened in the sky between you.

He is in the tracks, in a half-voice, in the notes of fatigue.
You are in empty messages that I did not send.

The accident was not loud.
But in pieces, you disappeared.

—The news will only show fragments of feelings...

A year later you saw him again.
A concert. A small venue. He came out into soft light. No embellishments. No posing.

And sang your song.
Not the one you wrote together. The one he wrote after.

-Now you won’t recognize me, no matter how many examinations you conduct...

You were standing in the crowd. No one knew you were there.
But when he looked up at the end, on the line:

-And the black box will convey my sadness...

He looked straight at you.