Duncan Laurence - Arcade (Lyric Video)

Alguém em 2026

❤❤❤❤❤❤

Still sound great 👍 ❤

❤

This song deserved to win 100% Not like the other jokes than won all the years after

Twlight

Still one of the greatest Eurovision tracks

I am leaving this comment here so after a month or a year when someone likes it, I get reminder of this song ❤

2026 anyone

There are two versions of this song in the other one there is a female voice

I don't need your games.....GAME OVER

And that, people, is what you call talent.

Eu sou de circo e essa música é perfeita pra mim apresentar ❤

When I had my first phone, all the videos I watched had this song in them. Didn’t realized this song had curved in my soul up until today.❤☺️

Celyna nyanyi di Idol lagu ini bagus bgt

Marcus ❤❤❤

Smallfoot

1:22 Ready to sing
"Do you lo- huh"

I'am 9 Year's old

Música linda 😍😍

Time go fast its like ten day from 2024 to 2026

Self is the Man

Ur welcomme

Hey Rose, hope you are doing well. I have my University entrance exam next week,so lately I have been busy that's why I didn't engage on any of your posts,,life has been hard.
Maybe l won't be able to read the next chapter for few days,l have to organise my life, myself everything is a mess. But do remember l love Broken Spirits, it's a part of me and sooner or later l will come back to it.
I have read chapter 34 few days ago but couldn't say anything about it nor could appreciate you, because trust me I felt too much,a lot,and I couldn't bring myself to express them in right words. You know the feelings were too heavy to just pour them out into some words. Like have you ever felt you want to say a lot but can't even say a word!!
When l will be in right state to express those l will definitely say them,,for now just know that it was Beautiful.
I just came to give you my greetings. Don't forget me okay,do remember.

Am in my "listening to all the classics" arc

Who's with me

and here i thought this was just youtube shorts slop audio that was overused, it actually had deep meaning that i eventually related to when she left me a year ago.

I got addicted to a losing game hits hard💔

I STILL LOVE YOU I 🥰❤️‍🩹

❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤oh oh oh 😢😢😢😢🎉🎉🎉🎉

i love this song and the animated background to it it makes it so more calm but also sad i love it so im subbing to you beacause this takes work

who is here in 2026

Está foi boa mano

무제한 오늘 자정까지

Caramba eu amo essa música muito muito muito

2027

My momo was passed last night when I listen this song I realised that nothing in our hand and we always think about future

AOT 💖💖

Andrew Garfield 98%
Song 2%

2021 nostalgia

The autumn sunlight over the Canterbury market lacked the filtered delicacy of the velvet curtains at Pemberton Manor. It was a raw brightness, carrying the scent of overripe apples, damp wool, and the honest sweat of hundreds of peasants and merchants jostling among wooden stalls.
Eloisa Evans adjusted the coarse linen apron over her belly, which now protruded with a prominence no layers of wool skirts could conceal. Seven months. Seven months since the marble-and-sandalwood world of Alistair Pemberton had collapsed, leaving in its place the real, pulsing weight of a new life. She felt a strong kick against her ribs.
“Careful with that basket, Peter. The potatoes are heavy today,” Eloisa said, her voice now carrying an accent tinged with the rustic vernacular of Kent.
Beside her, Peter Miller, all of twelve and armed with iron determination, puffed out his chest. He held a wooden stick like a tournament lance, his eyes alert for any pickpocket or drunken gentleman who dared come too close to Eloisa.
“Leave it to me, Miss Eloisa. My father said I’m your official knight today,” the boy declared, adjusting his battered felt cap. “If any of those London jokers try to bump into you, they’ll have to deal with my boot.”
Eloisa let out a short laugh, her first of the day. The cold morning air turned her breath into little white clouds. She felt tired; her back ached with a dull persistence and her ankles were swollen, yet there was a peace in the labor at the Millers’ farm that the suffocating luxury of the Pembertons had never offered. Here, she was not a “fallen noblewoman” or a “stray”; she was simply herself.
“Three pence for the apples, ma’am!” Eloisa called to a customer, her hands—now calloused, her nails short—moving with practiced ease as she handed over the fruit.
Meanwhile, just a few yards away, the world of privilege collided with the mud of the market.
Alistair Pemberton, the Earl of Ravenwood, stepped down from his black carriage with the expression of a man who would rather be anywhere else on earth. London had been a desert of ministerial meetings, hollow balls, and the incessant sound of his mother’s voice demanding a legitimate heir. He had grown thinner. His cheekbones stood out more sharply, and his blue eyes seemed to have lost their brightness, replaced by a cold apathy.
He had come to Canterbury to discuss expanding wool trade routes with a local baron. The noise of the market irritated him. The smell of the crowd irritated him. Everything reminded him of a pair of brown eyes he had tried, unsuccessfully, to drown in bottles of cognac.
“My lord, this way. Mr. Higgins’s office is just past that vegetable stall,” Alistair’s secretary indicated, trying to clear a path through the crowd.
Alistair walked with his silver-headed cane tapping rhythmically against the uneven paving. He looked over the crowd, maintaining aristocratic distance—until a sound made him stop short.
A laugh.
It was not the restrained laughter of London ladies, nor the shrill cackle of taverns. It was a sunlit laugh, full of a resilience he would recognize in the midst of a storm at sea.
He turned, his heart lurching so violently it left him momentarily breathless.
There, behind a stack of grain sacks and wicker baskets, stood her.
But she was not the Eloisa he had left in the library. This woman wore a coarse brown wool dress, a scarf tied over her brown hair, from which rebellious, lively curls escaped. Her cheeks were flushed from the cold and the effort.
And then, Alistair saw.
The world seemed to lose its sound. The movement of people around him blurred into nothing. His eyes dropped to Eloisa’s belly—round, heavy, an undeniable curve announcing to the world what he had tried to erase with a cowardly letter. She was carrying the weight of that night in the library.
He watched her accept a coin from a farmer, smile at the boy beside her—who looked like a miniature bodyguard—and place a hand against her back in the instinctive gesture of someone bearing the weight of pregnancy.
The shock struck him like a physical blow. Alistair tasted the bitter rise of regret in his throat. He had never imagined seeing her there, selling potatoes in the mud, seven months pregnant with his heir, protected by a child instead of an army of servants.
“Eloisa…” The name slipped from his lips like a broken breath.
Eloisa felt a shiver run down her spine—that same magnetism that had once made her look out the mansion window months ago. She lifted her gaze, brushing a strand of hair from her face.
Time stopped.
The coin in her hand slipped from her fingers, striking the wooden counter with a metallic sound that seemed like thunder. Alistair’s face was only a few yards away. He looked like a ghost of elegance amid the market’s grime—top hat, impeccably cut coat, and a look of desperation.
Peter Miller sensed the change instantly. He stepped in front of Eloisa, wooden stick in hand, eyes narrowed at the nobleman.
“Who are you?” Peter demanded, trying to deepen his voice. “What do you want with Miss Eloisa? Get out of here, dandy, or you’ll get a beating!”
Alistair didn’t hear the boy. He stepped forward, ignoring the mud staining his hundred-guinea calfskin boots.
“Eloisa… you…” he stammered, hand outstretched, fingers trembling. He looked again at her belly, and a mixture of adoration, terror, and absolute guilt washed over his face. “Why didn’t you come to me? Why are you… here?”
Eloisa felt the baby kick, as if recognizing its father’s voice. She took a deep breath, inhaling the scent of earth and apples, and straightened her spine as much as her condition allowed.
“I did what you asked in your letter, Lord Alistair,” she said, her voice steady, though her eyes glistened. “I didn’t come to you. I found people who value ‘heart over lineage,’ remember? Things you said the Pembertons respected—before you ran away in the middle of the night.”
“I didn’t know… Eloisa, I swear on my life, I didn’t know about the child—” Alistair took another step, and Peter raised the stick, pressing it against the Earl’s chest.
“Back off!” Peter ordered. “She’s my responsibility!”
Alistair glanced at the boy, and for a moment, the gleam of the Earl of Ravenwood returned to his eyes, but it was quickly replaced by a plea.
“Let me speak to her, lad. Please. I am…” he faltered, voice breaking, “I am the reason she is like this.”
Eloisa placed a hand on Peter’s shoulder, calming her small knight.
“It’s all right, Peter. He won’t hurt me. He doesn’t have that power anymore.”
Alistair felt those words like blades. He looked at Eloisa’s hands, dirty with soil and trade, then at her face, glowing with a strength he had never seen in any Lady of London. In that instant, he realized that in trying to protect his lineage and his honor, he had lost the only thing that truly mattered.
“Eloisa,” he whispered, his voice heavy with raw pain, “I came to this town on business, but I think fate brought me here to be judged. Please… let me take you away from this. You cannot give birth on a farm, working like a servant!”
“I am not a servant, Alistair. I am free—something I never would have been in your mansion under your mother’s gaze or your cousin’s,” Eloisa said, stepping around the counter and slowly walking until she stood face to face with him. The difference in height was still the same, but now she seemed taller than he was. “This baby is not a ‘library secret.’ He is a Miller at heart, if need be.”
Alistair fell to his knees right there in the mud of the Canterbury market, before the pregnant woman and the peasant boy. He did not care about the stares of merchants or the scandal. He raised a hand to Eloisa’s belly, asking permission with his eyes.
Eloisa hesitated, but the sadness in his gaze was too deep to ignore. She allowed it. When Alistair’s gloved hand touched the coarse fabric and felt his child’s kick, he broke down.
“I will fix this,” he promised, his forehead pressed against her belly. “I will burn the world if I must, but you and my child will never sell another potato out of necessity.”

Amen❤

I