Blurrylies
Iansa always believed that music could heal anything.
When she was little, she'd sit by the window and press her small fingers against invisible piano keys, imagining each note as a star being born. Her world was quiet then, not empty, but fragile, like a sheet of glass that could shatter if she breathed too hard. She found comfort in the idea that music could give silence a heartbeat. That it could make loneliness sound beautiful.
Her dream was simple, to play the piano for people who needed to feel less alone.
She never cared for fame or stages. She only wanted to play in the corners of old cafés, where the air smelled of coffee and dust and forgotten love. She wanted to play for strangers who didn't know her name but would remember her music.
But dreams, she would learn, are sometimes stolen before they have the chance to bloom.
Ivan, on the other hand, was the kind of boy who saw stories in everything.
He carried a camera like it was a diary, silent, observant, and full of things he didn't know how to say aloud. He dreamed of capturing life as it was, in all its quiet tragedy and accidental beauty. Where Iansa painted with sound, he painted with light. Where she searched for rhythm, he searched for stillness.
He wasn't the loud type. He never liked crowds, never liked to be seen more than necessary. But when he looked through the lens, he felt infinite. The world stopped spinning for a moment, and all the chaos, all the noise, became still. He dreamed of taking a photograph that would make someone stop, feel, and understand, just once, that beauty doesn't always come from joy.