Mila -1- Jpg -

Mila -1- Jpg -

Filed under: The Archive / First Encounters

I found it buried in a folder labeled “Old Drives – 2019.” You know the kind. The digital equivalent of a cardboard box in the garage, taped shut and marked with a fading Sharpie. Inside: 1,847 files. Duplicates. corrupted previews. Screenshots of things I no longer recognize. And then, this one. MILA -1- jpg

This is the first in what I’m calling the —images I’ve found (or taken) that feel like they belong to someone else’s life. Or maybe a life I’m only now remembering. Filed under: The Archive / First Encounters I

Maybe Mila was a friend of a friend. Maybe a stranger on a train who let me take her portrait. Maybe a dream I had and then converted to a lossy file format before waking up. Duplicates

That’s the question that keeps me staring. The file name suggests intention. “MILA” isn’t a default label like “IMG_4291.” It’s a name. A person. A memory I’ve somehow misplaced.

But someone was watching. Me. I took this photo. And yet, staring at it now, I don’t remember pressing the shutter. I don’t remember the day, the city, or why she was laughing. The metadata is long gone. The camera was a cheap point-and-shoot I haven’t owned in eight years.

I double-clicked before I could stop myself.

Filed under: The Archive / First Encounters

I found it buried in a folder labeled “Old Drives – 2019.” You know the kind. The digital equivalent of a cardboard box in the garage, taped shut and marked with a fading Sharpie. Inside: 1,847 files. Duplicates. corrupted previews. Screenshots of things I no longer recognize. And then, this one.

This is the first in what I’m calling the —images I’ve found (or taken) that feel like they belong to someone else’s life. Or maybe a life I’m only now remembering.

Maybe Mila was a friend of a friend. Maybe a stranger on a train who let me take her portrait. Maybe a dream I had and then converted to a lossy file format before waking up.

That’s the question that keeps me staring. The file name suggests intention. “MILA” isn’t a default label like “IMG_4291.” It’s a name. A person. A memory I’ve somehow misplaced.

But someone was watching. Me. I took this photo. And yet, staring at it now, I don’t remember pressing the shutter. I don’t remember the day, the city, or why she was laughing. The metadata is long gone. The camera was a cheap point-and-shoot I haven’t owned in eight years.

I double-clicked before I could stop myself.