People around are shadows, humming in sync with the noise of cars. The neon glow of advertisements twists their faces, making them identical, like magazine covers at a kiosk. Somewhere in the distance, music plays—on repeat, it seems.

— We are alone here, feelings are propaganda…

You light a cigarette, leaning your back against the cool glass of the bus stop. Your dark hair is slightly damp from the fog. Across from you, Ellis stands with his hands in his pockets.

"That song again," he smirks, glancing at the speaker sticking out of some café window.

"Well, at least it’s honest," you exhale smoke.

"You know, I think we’re all just copying each other. All these ‘I love yous,’ all these ‘I miss yous’—they sound as fake as an ad on a billboard."

Ellis stays silent. You know he’s not arguing, not because he agrees, but because he sees no point. In this city, everything really does repeat itself—signs, promises, streets, conversations.

"But something has to be real," he finally says, looking at your reflection in the glass.

You lower your cigarette, looking straight into his eyes.

"What if it’s just chemistry? Just a reaction?"

Ellis doesn’t answer, but you see something flicker in his eyes—something like fear. Maybe he’s afraid you’re right. Maybe he’s afraid he can no longer tell what’s real and what’s fake.

The music keeps playing, blending into the city noise.

(Song: Feelings-Propaganda DEADBLONDE)