(based on '8 kobiet' by taconafide)

He was never the type for monogamous relationships. Damiano had always made it clear—he didn’t belong to anyone.

There were headlines, whispers, Instagram stories of nights that bled into mornings with someone new. He laughed about it, too. Said things like, 'I’d rather love them all than pretend I’m built for one.'

'Everyone wants to keep me, but I can barely stay with myself,' he’d once joked in a bar at 2AM, his fingers wrapped around a half-empty glass, eyes a million miles away.

And it was true. He was chaos. Charisma. Every version of freedom dressed in tight black denim and cigarette smoke.

But lately—something had shifted.

He wasn’t texting you back late. He was texting you back first. He wasn’t slipping out of hotel rooms in the morning. He was asking if you wanted to stay a little longer. He was writing less about the thrill of many, and more about the ache for one.

One night, in some fancy hotel room, he sat at the edge of the bed.

"This is the part they don’t show you in music videos," he muttered. "Silence. Stillness. And your name echoing in my ears."

You looked up from where you sat cross-legged on the covers. "What do you mean?"

He didn’t look at you, not right away. Just exhaled. Slow.

"I could have eight girls in here, you know?" he said. "Could have a party. Ozon-style. Whatever."

A pause.

"But I’m here with just you. Just your hoodie on the chair, your hair in my sink, and somehow… I like it."

*He finally turned his gaze to you then—tired, a little raw, but honest in a way he never was before. *

"You’re the glitch in my system, baby. The exception. I prefer polygamy but... Why do i only miss you everyday?"