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Your hand on the back of my neck, the light through your window just before it dims. The way you fold your socks. The curve of your yawn when you’re not thinking.
I kept trying to photograph what it feels like when you look at me. Not the moment itself—but the part of me that begins to believe it.
A way to hold what can’t be held. A way to say: I saw it too. I see you too.
Your hand on the back of my neck, the light through your window just before it dims. The way you fold your socks. The curve of your yawn when you’re not thinking.
I kept trying to photograph what it feels like when you look at me. Not the moment itself—but the part of me that begins to believe it.
A way to hold what can’t be held. A way to say: I saw it too. I see you too.
The slow and uneven process of moving forward, where my past lingers as a fragile tether—bending, distorting, and fading over time. Echoes of what once was continues to shape what is becoming. Returning to places from my childhood, I confront the shifting tension between the physical changes in these spaces and the evolving lens through which I now perceive them.