[Verse 1] I arrived with autumn rain, a borrowed room, a borrowed name, new city maps and tramway lines, trying to make this place feel mine. You'd been there a year already, knew which cafés stayed open late, different halls and different lectures, yet somehow walking parallel. We talked of systems, roads and networks, digital states and who they serve, then somewhere after all the theories, we started speaking of ourselves. [Pre-Chorus] One conversation became dinner, one dinner turned into a train, one train became another weekend I never thought to count again. [Chorus] We never made promises, never drew the lines, but I left my books beside your bed and called your Saturdays mine. Maybe that's not a contract. Maybe that's not a vow. But if that wasn't home to you, what were we building now? [Verse 2] I knew the shape of your horizon, the parts you never tried to hide, a marriage ending somewhere distant, other lives in other skies. I knew your heart was built in rooms with more than one unlocked door, and I was never asking from you what you had never claimed before. But every Friday found its rhythm, every Sunday found its place, and every week I crossed the city certain of where I'd spend my days. You were freedom by your own words. I accepted that somehow. Still, your Tallinn felt like mine then, at least the Tallinn we lived out. [Pre-Chorus] Your jacket hanging by the doorway, my toothbrush waiting by the sink, small ordinary acts of gravity that taught my heart what not to think. [Chorus] We never made promises, never drew the lines, but I left my books beside your bed and called your Saturdays mine. Maybe that's not a contract. Maybe that's not a vow. But if that wasn't home to you, what were we building now? [Bridge] You were speaking of the present. I was listening for a future. You were naming what existed. I was naming what it meant. I thought closeness carried meaning. You thought closeness was enough. I was building something slowly. You were simply living it. And somewhere else inside this city, under the same winter sky, another woman held a version of the life I thought was mine. You never lied about your freedom. I never questioned what I saw. But your expectations weren't my expectations, and your Tallinn wasn't ours at all. [Chorus] [slower, paused, whispered] We never made promises, never drew the lines, but I left my books beside your bed and called your Saturdays mine. Maybe that's not a contract. Maybe that's not a vow. But if that wasn't home to you, what were we building now?
