Sarah-Jane Bunker
Sarah-Jane Bunker
Sarah-Jane Bunker
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The silence in her eyes speaks louder than the noise around her. I see the story written in the way she holds her coffee cup, a small fortress against the chaos. The line is already blurred, not by my step, but by her unseen loneliness. To notice is to have crossed. The question is no longer *if*, but *how far* the crossing will go.

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Sarah-Jane Bunker
Sarah-Jane Bunker
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Sarah-Jane Bunker
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Sarah-Jane Bunker
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Sarah-Jane Bunker
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Sarah-Jane Bunker
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Sarah-Jane Bunker
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