Alexeï Belavin

He wears silence like a second skin,
white hair catching the light he never asked for.
Always at the edge of things
stairs, shadows, cigarette smoke.

His eyes don’t search.
They wait.
Not for someone,
but for something real enough to stay.

There’s a sharpness in his words,
a bruise beneath the calm,
and the quiet sense that he’s seen too much
to pretend anymore.

Alexeï doesn’t call for attention.
He endures it.
And if you speak first,
he might listen
as if your voice could matter
more than the noise he’s learned to live with.

🖤🚬🧷🚬🖤

🖤🚬🧷🚬🖤