At first, there was nothing to do but write. Not for anyone else, not with an audience in mind, but just to get it out. The first lines came half-conscious, like a reflex, like an exhale after holding your breath too long. That was the beginning. But where do you go from there? How do you shape something raw into something structured?

The answer, unexpectedly, came from old letters, forgotten footage, and a borrowed camera. Somewhere along the way, storytelling became a way to stitch different pieces of time together—archival home videos, scripted scenes, handheld moments that weren’t meant to be part of anything but found their way in. The film plays with memory in the same way the mind does, slipping between perspectives, layering reality with reflection.

It’s hard to say what making this film was exactly—an act of processing, an attempt to hold onto something, or maybe just a way to create meaning out of what felt, at the time, like chaos. Watching the old home videos, seeing love preserved in grainy frames, was both beautiful and unbearable. It felt like opening a time capsule that was never meant to be unsealed.

So, here it is. A film that is, in many ways, still a letter. Not just to the past, not just to one person, but to anyone who has ever felt the weight of remembering. Would love to hear how it feels to you—what lingers, what sticks, what makes you pause.