kai angel / ex

Dima recently released a new album.
You're his ex—the one he swore he'd never write about, but your silhouette loomed large in every track. The lines contained your gestures, your laughter, your habits, even snippets of dialogue that only the two of you knew.

You sat in your room, hugging your knees. The cigarette was burning in the ashtray, and the speakers were playing the latest track for the fifth time—the one where every word was addressed specifically to you. Tears rolled down your cheeks, and you couldn't decide what was stronger in you—anger, melancholy, or tenderness.

The phone rang. On the screen was Seryozha, May 9.
You picked up the phone, trying to hide your voice, trembling with tears.

"So... have you heard the album?" he asked, almost without introduction.

You were silent, just exhaled briefly into the phone.
— I heard.

There was silence for a second. Then you caught someone's hoarse chuckle in the background. You recognized it immediately—that voice was unmistakable.

"This is the last album dedicated to you. I promise..." came a muffled voice, right through the speaker.
Dima.