I write about the ugly parts of love. The price of it. The things that are not pretty and were never meant to be.
Not because I love darkness for its own sake — but because I have never trusted a story that looks away. The polished versions lie a little. Everyone knows it. We nod along to the tidy endings and keep our real lives hidden somewhere beneath them.
Tragedy is where people become most human.
I am drawn to human tragedy because grief does not perform. Obsession does not flatter. Shame keeps telling the truth long after composure has learned to smile. When life leaves its marks in us, it also leaves the truest record of who we are — and of who we become afterward.
So that is what I write: love as something that can save and consume. The quiet violence that hides behind care. The people we become when life sets its marks in us — softer in some places, sharper in others, and never quite who we were before.
