I don’t write reviews in the traditional sense—not to measure or rank, but to linger a little longer in the world a book or film creates. Some stories stay with me long after the final page or closing credits, not because they were perfect, but because they found a way in—quietly, unexpectedly.

Writing about them is a way of returning. Of tracing the shape of what moved me. The tenderness of a single scene, the sharpness of a line that echoes days later, the ache of something unresolved. Often, I find that what I’m really writing about isn’t just the story itself, but the part of me that responded to it.

These reflections are not definitive. They are fragments, impressions, small attempts at making sense of why something mattered for a moment. Sometimes I write with clarity; other times, I circle around a feeling I can’t quite name. But in all cases, I write to remember.

Because sometimes, the stories we revisit reveal more about us than the ones we leave behind.