We don't remember the way cameras do—sharp and literal. We remember the silence in a hallway where we once waited for news. The way shadows fell when we said goodbye. The echo that made us feel less alone, or more alone, than we'd ever been.

I'm interested in those moments when a scene becomes more than light and shadow, people and place. When it reflects and exposes your secrets, your longings, the conversations you've had with yourself in the dark. They're about the distances between what happened and what you carry forward—blurred and beautiful and impossibly heavy with everything you can't quite say.