Rendy Mahardhika

In New York’s constant motion, I paused—watching the skyline melt into glass. The buildings softened, became dreamlike. In that reflection, I saw more than structure: even what feels solid eventually shifts. Nothing holds its shape for long in a world that never stays still.

It wasn’t the blur that stayed with me—it was the part that didn’t arrive. A photo made while chasing the day, but left holding the weight of what never caught up. Not lost, not found—just somewhere in between, still waiting to be noticed. Maybe even by me.

Something about the color—too warm, too close—felt like memory in disguise. Not a photo of a puddle, but of a moment that didn’t come from here. Like seeing your own echo before realizing it was yours. A stillness that asked to be felt, not solved.

Some mornings didn’t start—they lingered. I told myself it was routine, but maybe I was just trying to stay whole. This photo isn’t about place. It’s about what remains when we pause too long in a moment that’s already moving on. Something stayed—and maybe that’s what haunts me.

I thought I missed the moment—too much light, too fast. But in the blur, something stayed. People moving through a city that felt half-remembered. It wasn’t what I planned, but maybe that’s the point. Some memories don’t stay sharp. Some just burn their way out.

I took the photo after coming home—just a piece of worn wood. But something in it looked like New York. Not exactly, just enough. I didn’t plan it. Just noticed. Sometimes, memory shows up in places that don’t mean to hold it—but somehow still do.

I didn’t frame it, didn’t even look. Just clicked. Later, I saw what the city gave me—blurred lights, half-people, rain like memory. A lucky shot, maybe. But sometimes, the unplanned ones are the most honest. The city moves, and if you’re lucky, it lets you move with it.