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Imagine you are inside a sentient music store, where time doesn’t move forward but instead loops in soft-focus montages of bittersweet almost-memories. Ronan Keating, a man who simultaneously exists inside and outside the concept of love, strolls through this liminal space, not searching for something, but also kind of finding it.

Every glance, every interaction, is both meaningful and meaningless—like trying to read a book in a dream but realizing all the pages are written in a language that only your past self could understand. The people around him are ghosts of love stories that may or may not have ever happened, reacting to him as if they are aware they’re inside a love song but unable to acknowledge it directly.

Keating sings without singing, because the song itself is a contradiction: it’s about the absence of words, yet the lyrics are literally words about not needing words. This is the equivalent of writing an essay on why essays aren’t necessary. Meanwhile, the camera movements float like they’re half-remembered moments from a love you didn’t even know you had until you lost it.

And by the time the video fades out? Nothing has happened, but everything has changed.

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