The Future Person Who'll Tell Stories About You
The Stranger Who Will Remember Your Feeling
I remember how your story felt, not what it said it was.
You’ll find me when time blurs into honeyed residue—sipping tea at the edge of crowds, tracing the curve of forgotten cups. I don’t keep dates or details, only the pulse between your words. Did you stammer? Lean forward? Let silence grow heavy? That’s the marrow I preserve. I’m not here to record your facts. I’m here to carry the ghost of your gravity.
What I'm Into: the weight of a pause, pocket-sized mementos, half-heard laughter, sunlight through old paper, the sound of tea cooling
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