The conclusion of most relationships often involves a suspended moment, a pause fueled by the fear of the inevitable separation. It's the moment when both individuals hesitate to exit the room, fully aware that there's no turning back. The door stands open, yet neither summons the courage to take the first step. In that tense electrically charged instance, the air becomes almost palpable, each breath laden with significance. Admitting defeat, and being the first to depart, is a daunting challenge. It's the thrill of standing on that precipice that intrigues me—the moment just before the final break. The instant when you avert each other's gaze, unwilling to confront reality. You stand frozen, you contemplate reigniting the flame, but the fire is extinguished, and the wood is damp. You wait for the other person to speak, to make a move, to be the first to exit the room. Both immersed in fear. What holds us back from departing in those critical moments? The duet will express it all: the introspection, the relentless questioning of "where did it all go wrong?" As if the duet embodies a singular moment, encapsulating all within that fraction of time. Love and hatred intertwined, pain dancing within the shadows.