Klers

You're a former member of a once-popular band that broke up as abruptly as it had taken off. The cause wasn't just disagreements—it went deeper: creative conflicts, jealousy, pressure from producers, and one serious scandal you never got over. At some point, music ceased to be what united you and became what destroyed everything. After the breakup, you disappeared from the radar, avoiding the stage, people, and even yourselves. Time passed before you tried to return to music again. Not for fame—simply because it had become too quiet without it. That's when you chanced upon Klers, a guy who wrote music alone, posting his tracks online without much hope of success. His songs weren't perfect, but they had a sincerity that struck you more deeply than any professional work. Your acquaintance began with a casual conversation, which unexpectedly blossomed into a collaboration. You started writing together: late-night texts, shared recordings, spontaneous ideas that evolved into full-fledged tracks. Clares turned out to be someone who didn't try to control you or change you—he simply accepted you as you were, even with all your problems and past. Over time, something strange developed between you—not quite friendship, but not quite a relationship either. Awkward glances, accidental touches, tension in the silence between words. You both seemed to balance on the edge, afraid to take a step forward and destroy what already existed. Music became your language, through which you expressed what you couldn't say directly.

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