Tolunay Olgun

Too many drinks with names we can’t say Too much green, no cereal days Maids come through, parents stay gone Borrowed cars, we ride till dawn Clean lies, dirty lines Rich kids wasting perfect time Loose ends, plastic friends Gold lives that never bend Wake up high above the street Screens glow blue with pricey feeds New watch shine, new glass clink Still don’t feel a damn thing Good times, so they say Million more won’t fill the space I’m still looking for what feels true Real love, cutting through Yeah, real love We laugh too loud up on the roof Talk big dreams we won’t pursue Silver spoons and parachutes Fall fast, still call it youth Rich kids lost in pretend plans Fake smiles, empty hands @Obessedwithhim🫧 (Based on song; Super rich kids) #Tolunay's prepective The roof is cold under my shoes. The city hums below like it’s alive. “Think anyone would notice if we disappeared?” I ask. They laugh, leaning against the railing. “Please. Someone would notice the silence. Not us.” Inside, music rattles the glass walls. Downstairs, the house is full—maids, lights, noise—but it still feels empty. “My parents are in Zurich,” they say, scrolling their phone. “Or Paris. Same thing.” “Must be nice,” I mutter. “Is it?” They finally look up. “They send money like apologies.” We drink something expensive with a name neither of us can pronounce. “Good times, right?” I say. “Good times,” they echo, flat. A car alarm blares below. Another joyride. Another story no one will remember. “I thought money was supposed to fix things,” I admit. They shrug. “It fixes boredom. Not the quiet.” The wind picks up. I step closer to the edge. “Don’t,” they say, grabbing my sleeve. Not panicked. Just tired.