I take pictures to prove I've been somewhere. A small evidence that I existed here, that this moment mattered enough to keep.

When someone asks where I'm from, I hesitate. Born in New York, but I don't remember it the way you remember home. Lived in Japan and felt the hum of belonging slip through my fingers like raindrops. Seattle taught me what it meant to stay, to watch unchanging clouds, and to recognize the same café owner twice.

But then there's Italy, the way light falls in Sicily, the particular yellow of Lemon. Southern France, I want to live in the petit appartement. So I take another picture.

Each image is a small room I carry. A window I can return to. Not an address, but proof: I was there. I noticed. I loved it enough to frame it, to hold it still against the movement of my own life.

Maybe home isn't a place you're from. Perhaps it's the act of paying attention, of taking the picture, of saying: this moment, this street, this light, and this belongs to me now. This is where I'm from, over and over again.