Some mornings stay longer than they should.
There was a rhythm to my mornings in New York—coffee, sidewalk, a seat I didn’t choose but always returned to. I called it routine. But some days, it felt more like residue.
That quiet stretch between light and motion, when the day pressed in but I hadn’t caught up yet.
I told myself I was just pausing. But maybe I was trying to anchor something—anything—while everything else kept rushing forward.
This photo isn’t of a chair. It’s of that pause.
Of a presence mid-fade.
Still warm, still saturated. But soft at the edges, already slipping into the shape of memory.
The red wasn’t just red. It was nerve. Rush. Skin.
It was everything I hadn’t processed yet.
And maybe that’s what haunts me still.
Not the place. Not the person.
But the shape of where I was when I was trying to stay whole.
