Unfolding

For me, a slow Sunday morning with no plans is a rare luxury.

My mind has never quite learned to rest inside one. What my eyes see, it turns into a rushwave of images - frames already half-composed before I have finished my coffee, geometry quietly assembling itself out of the ordinary.

That morning, thankfully, I wasn't alone.

She was there beside me, willing to let the hours move at their own pace. White sheets. Steam from the shower. The kind of light that asks nothing of you and gives back everything.

There was no concept. No mood board. No call sheet. Just a quiet apartment, a woman comfortable enough to fall in and out of sleep, and a camera I couldn't quite put down.

What unfolded - and the word kept arriving - was the morning itself. Bedsheets, breath, water, the small private rituals of a body waking up. Nothing performed. Nothing earned.

Just a Sunday, kept.