[Intro - intimate, almost spoken] “I told you already.” It came out too fast. A little impatient. You looked at me as if you were trying to remember where you'd left that sentence. Then you smiled. “Oh, did you?” And for a second I felt very small. [Verse 1] When I was a child I'd ask you a hundred times: “How much longer?” “Why does the sky change color?” “Does tomorrow come before or after we sleep?” And you answered. Again. And again. As if every question was really the first. I'd tell you the same story three times in one afternoon. And you'd laugh in the same places. You never said: “You told me that already.” You said: “And then?” [Pre-Chorus] Now sometimes it's you who comes back to the same sentence. Who asks me something we just talked about. Who starts in one place and somehow ends up somewhere else. I know the road. For a moment, maybe you don't. [Chorus] So take your time. There's no hurry. Tell me the same thing again. If you lose the thread, we'll hold it together. If a word can't find the door, we'll stay here until it comes back. Maybe patience doesn't return. Maybe it simply changes direction. [Verse 2] You ask me: “Is your sister coming tomorrow?” I tell you. Five minutes pass. “Is your sister coming tomorrow?” This time I breathe before I answer. “Yes. Around four.” And you say: “Oh, good.” Like a small piece of good news has just arrived. And maybe for you, right then, it has. [Pre-Chorus] Other times we're talking about lunch and suddenly you're telling me about the red bicycle you had when you were young. I could pull you back to the conversation. But I listen. Because maybe you didn't get lost. Maybe you just took a road I couldn't see. [Chorus] So take your time. There's no hurry. Tell me the same thing again. If you lose the thread, we'll hold it together. If the conversation walks into another room, I'll follow. Maybe patience doesn't return. Maybe it simply changes direction. [Bridge - stripped, very close vocal] How many times did you wait for me while I learned to tie my shoes? How many times did you slow your steps because my legs were smaller than yours? How many words did you repeat until they became part of me? Now, when you slow down, maybe growing up really means this: not pulling you forward. Just walking at your pace. [Build - groove slowly returns] I don't have to correct every sentence. I don't have to fix every moment of confusion. I don't have to remind you that you've said it before. Sometimes it's enough to look you in the eyes, answer again, and let time make another circle without shame. [Final Chorus] Tell me the same thing again. I'm here. If the question returns, the answer can return too. If a story comes around twice, I'll listen twice. You had patience while I was growing up. Now, when the world moves a little too fast for you, I'll be the one who slows it down. [Outro - intimate] Tonight you asked me: “Did I ever tell you about that red bicycle?” I smiled. “No. Tell me.” And you started from the beginning. [Brief pause] This time I wasn't in a hurry to reach the end. [Soft final line] “And then?” [End]
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