byate8a
She isn’t whole — she’s a feeling, scattered through the air. Hundreds of suspended cubes hang in silence, like frozen emotions catching the light. Only from a single point of view do they align into her silhouette — fragile, almost spectral. In that moment, there’s a quiet ache: a longing for lost wholeness, the struggle to piece oneself back together. Now existing only when seen from the right angle, in the right light.