My writing lives in the in-betweens between memory and dream, silence and voice. It’s just me, trying to make sense of being human.

I’ve loved words for as long as I can remember not just for how they sound, but for how they feel. Life has left its marks with moments that cracked me open and others that quietly stitched me back together. Somewhere in all that, I found comfort in stories, in late-night pages, in the smell of old books, and in the calm of a coffee cup.