A Love Letter to photography

I write this from the edge of a cliff in Santorini, the Aegean stretched out like a brushstroke of blue beneath the sun. You’d love this place—the way the sky kisses the sea, the quiet whispers of the wind, the hum of life that pulses beneath the whitewashed walls. It reminds me of you. Everything beautiful does.

You once asked me why I chose this life—why I always run toward the horizon, camera in hand, chasing fading light and fleeting faces. I never had a good answer then. Maybe I didn’t know. Maybe I didn’t want to admit that every road I follow is just another attempt to find a piece of you in the world.

The truth is, I fell in love twice. Once with you. And once with the world.

But they aren’t separate. You see, I carry you with me in every sunrise I shoot, every stranger’s eyes I try to capture, every hidden alley I wander. You are in every frame, tucked between the shadows and light, as if the world echoes your presence back to me, no matter where I go.

I remember that day in Kyoto—the cherry blossoms falling like pink snow, the air soft with spring. You were laughing, your hands full of postcards we’d never send. I had my camera slung around my neck but I couldn’t take a single photo. Not because the scene wasn’t beautiful, but because it would never match the memory. Some moments are too sacred to trap in pixels.

You told me once that you worried I’d choose the road over you. That my heart belonged more to airports and alleyways than to quiet dinners and morning coffee. I didn’t know how to answer then. I guess I thought love was something you came back to, not something you took with you.

But I know now: love is a lens through which you see the world.

I see you in the storm clouds over Iceland, in the early light of a Moroccan market, in the laughter of children running barefoot through the streets of Cartagena. I see you in the pauses between shutter clicks. I hear your voice in the silence after the sun sets.

I used to chase the perfect shot. Now I just try to capture the feeling—of being alive, of being in love, of being lost and found all at once.

There’s a photo I took last week in Rajasthan. A woman in red stood in the doorway of her home, light slanting across her face like poetry. Her eyes held centuries. When I showed her the photo, she smiled without looking. “You’re not looking for photos,” she said, “you’re looking for someone.”

She was right.

Maybe I photograph places hoping one day you’ll follow the trail. Maybe I send you these prints and postcards like breadcrumbs across the world. Maybe each shutter click is my way of saying I miss you, I love you, I remember.

But love isn’t always about being in the same place at the same time. Sometimes it’s about holding someone so deeply that even the sky starts to resemble their smile.

I don’t know when I’ll stop. Maybe I never will. Maybe the road has no end, and maybe that’s okay. Because every step forward is a memory of you, every mile is a testament to what we shared.

I hope you still keep the photo of us in Lisbon—our hair windblown, your eyes half-laughing, my hand mid-reach toward yours. That was the moment I knew. It wasn’t the city, the light, or even the composition. It was you. It’s always been you.

Wherever I go, you are my home.

I’ll write again from the next place. Maybe the Andes, maybe a rooftop in Havana. Or maybe I’ll knock on your door one day, no map in hand, just a camera full of stories and a heart full of you.

Until then,
With all my love,
Yours in every frame,
L.