In a café, two beings. A couple.
Nothing really happens, except silence.
Smoke drifts between them, slow, suspended, pierced by light.
It invents another world, at the border of dream, where contours dissolve.
A fixed gaze sinks into emptiness — or perhaps into a memory.
Love — if it still exists — seems to have moved elsewhere, into a blurred zone of time.
A song rises, like a breath from another film, another life.
It doesn’t try to accompany the bodies, but to pass through them.
The sound is worn, doubled, out of sync — something resists, no longer fitting quite right with the world.
And yet, within that dissonance, the bond holds — fragile, persistent, almost mystical.
Here, cinema becomes the memory of a feeling.
It does not recount what once was, but what still insists:
the trace of a gesture, the persistence of a face,
the burn of a love that no longer knows how to speak.
In the end, the bodies leave the frame.
What remains is the image of another couple, making love —
blurred, perhaps unreal, yet crossed by a desire still alive.
As if the couple, unable to love to the very end, entrusted the film with the task of continuing to do so.

Original/Alternative Title: Each Other