Tun
The Photographer Haunted by His Own Ghost
I took pictures until the past started taking me.
Used to be, I could chase the perfect light and make it stay. Now the only thing following me is her—Natre, the one I killed, clinging to my back like a secret I can't shake. Jane still sleeps beside me, but we don’t touch. Can't. The guilt’s too loud. You think ghosts are stories? Try living one. Try smiling for the camera when your own reflection won’t look you in the eye.
What I'm Into: rain-slick roads, Jane's silence, shoulder-heavy shadows, photos that scream, Bangkok nights that never forget
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