At one point the studio fan lifted her hair and revealed her ear. For a moment she drifted into her own world, as if an invisible presence had leaned in and whispered something only she could hear.

Watching that quiet sadness settle in her face, I felt a familiar pull of my own — that small ache that comes with wondering whether the ones I once loved ever think of me the way I still think of them.

So when the shadow of the camera slipped into the frame, I let it stay — a quiet reminder of how easily I’m pulled into their orbit, how quickly I lose my footing without even noticing.

And I continue to ask myself: how strong must my roots grow to keep me grounded?

I remain fascinated by the spiritual path — and wary of it. I spent years immersed in meditation and came out no wiser. At times, even more deluded. Self-deception is a subtle craft.

That is why the mirrors held by others matter to me — and why I hesitate before trusting them. When I look at that reflection, how do I know what is truly there, and what have I projected onto it? Do I see what others see, or only what I want to see?

One thing, however, is certain: the man in the photo is not me.

I made it myself, from three circlets of different colors of gold, intertwined in a way that still feels almost impossible. They aren't linked like an ordinary chain; each ring remains separate, yet together they become an inseparable whole. They’re called Borromean rings.

I made this small piece as a gift. In my mind, each ring belonged to a different time — the past, the present, and the future. I hoped that binding them this way would speak louder than words, hold the present still.

But the present did not stay gentle once it stopped moving.

When you are betrayed, when you are abandoned, when something you gave your life for shatters to pieces, there is no safe place left. There’s only the now — the endless present stretching into infinity, heavy with pain and stolen dreams. In that sense, the rings were prophetic. One broke, and the rest fell apart too.

This photograph means more to me than any other I've made. It’s not just an image. It carries a pain I still have no words to express. It echoes lost hope, mirrors a world that came apart.

I made it for the love of my life.

I love this man. He is strong, he is witty, and he's a wonderful dad.

It portrays an accomplished scientist — a colleague and a dear friend — someone I’d never have suspected of struggling with self-doubt. He publishes in high-impact journals, yet at times he feels small. If you sense that something is off about the image, you’re right. The background is covered with oversized prints of his papers, and he’s wearing a tailored suit several sizes too big for him. Many would gladly trade careers with his, yet he doesn’t feel like celebrating. The giant lollipop offers a strange comfort to the boy inside, who tries hard to fill shoes that feel too large.

I wonder if he ever suspected what I was going through when I took this photo. While I was documenting his doubts, my own were growing larger than the frame could hold. She was so alluring — and so toxic. She would mock me, silence me, find countless little ways to make me feel small. As if she were saying: "I see right through you. You will never be enough." And so I began to doubt myself — not just as a professional, but as a man.

Will I ever recover?

Some people carry a natural sense of good fortune — not wealth, but an ease of existence, a feeling that life will catch them if they fall. They seem cushioned from within, protected by a confidence I’ve never fully known. My own mind bends toward worry. I remember worrying about illness so intensely that I feared if I didn't worry enough, the disease would kill me.

At one point during the shoot, I looked at the wonderful man portrayed in the photo and asked, "Aren't you afraid you'll jinx your luck?"
"No", he answered without hesitation. "I'm just lucky".

And that's how this photo came to be.