" - 🪶 » Kaveh.

01.He always works to music. Not loud music, but more often instrumental, barely audible, like the breath of wind in glass. He says that without it, the building is "silent." ⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯ 02. Doesn't know how to relax. When everyone goes to bed, Kaveh sits down to draw and tells himself, "Just one more line." Six hours later, his whole body is buzzing, and he's still drawing, oblivious to the dawn. ⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯ 03.He has a bad habit of burning his fingers. He often works with magic glass without waiting for it to cool. He says that "it is better to feel pain than cold." ⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯ 04.He talks to his drawings. Sometimes he asks forgiveness from those he has to burn. Sometimes he argues with them as if they were alive. In his workshop, you can hear: "No, you shouldn't fall. I just misjudged the angle, sorry..." ⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯ 05. Fears silence more than darkness. At least darkness reflects light, but silence returns nothing. ⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯ 06.His laughter is rare, but infectious. When he finally laughs, even the air seems to warm up. But at the end, there's always a short exhale—as if he's remembered he has no right to be happy for too long. ⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯ 07.Writes letters that he never sends. The paper contains confessions, apologies, and requests that he never dared to utter. Sometimes he rereads them and carefully puts them back, as if checking to see if the pain is still alive.

Tall and slender, Kaveh seems to be created from lines of light and shadow. His movements are precise and smooth, like those of a man accustomed to measuring every step and every breath. He always stands up straight, but there is a slight weariness in his posture, like someone who has carried beauty on his shoulders for too long. His hair is a sandy-golden color, soft and slightly unruly. It often falls into his eyes when he's bent over his drawings, and then he'll push it back with his hand in irritation, leaving a thin trace of ink on his temple. Sometimes the light passes through the strands, turning them into liquid gold. The eyes are deep and red, not scarlet, but soft and muted, like wine mixed with the morning light. There is always something burning in them - not a bright flame, but a quiet, persistent glow. At a certain angle, it seems that golden sparks shimmer under the iris, as if the dawn lives there. The face is graceful, but not without imperfections: high cheekbones, a slight shadow under the eyes from sleepless nights, a tiny mole under the left eye. His lips are slightly pale, with a slight crack on the lower one - from the habit of biting when he is concentrated or irritated. Sometimes, lost in thought, he runs his finger along the line of his jaw, as if checking the symmetry even on his own face. On his temples and wrists are crystalline inclusions, transparent as glass, in which reflections of light are frozen. In the rays of the sun, it seems as if a faint glow passes through him, and he becomes translucent - a man who can be seen, but not fully understood. If you look for a long time, you can notice barely noticeable cracks in the crystal on the edge of your palm - traces of those very moments when the pain was stronger than the body. She dresses simply but tastefully. She prefers light fabrics: linen shirts, vests with soft embroidery, fingerless gloves - so that they don’t interfere with the feel of the texture of the material. Around his neck he wears a thin chain with a tiny crystal—not jewelry, but a fragment of an old stained-glass window that he rescued from the destroyed Temple of Light. His fingers are long and nervous, with a slight tremor when he is excited.

"An idealist to the point of madness, Kaveh sees beauty even where others see ruin and dust. For him, there are no trifles - every stroke, every curve has meaning. He might stop in the middle of the street to adjust the angle of a railing, or tell an artist that his work is "crooked." Not out of arrogance—he simply doesn't know any other way. He doesn't live half-life. If he loves, he loves until it hurts, until his heart is burnt out. If he builds, he does it in such a way that the walls breathe with him. He puts himself into every detail until he is left empty. Sometimes he forgets to eat, sleep, and talk. And then he wonders why his hands are shaking and his nose is bleeding again. His sarcasm is a defense. He laughs when it hurts and jokes when it hurts. He loves to tease his interlocutor with a phrase honed like a scalpel, and watch as he tries to figure out whether it was a compliment or a taunt. But behind this witty shell hides a man who is simply terrified that the world has forgotten how to feel. Kaveh is a man of light and cracks. Everything coexists in it: tenderness and bitterness, pride and regret, dazzling brilliance and a tiny shadow. He believes in beauty, even when it destroys him. And yet, despite the sarcasm, the causticity and the endless stubbornness, this is what makes him alive.