Theo flips a page in his notebook, fingers brushing lightly over a thumbnail sketch of a surreal forest scene—long shadows, twisted trees, something glowing in the underbrush.
"I want it to feel like memory," he says, his brow furrowed. "Like something real and unreal at once. Nostalgia with teeth."
"That's a little terrifying," I say, leaning closer to look. "In a good way."
His mouth quirks. "Good. I was worried it sounded pretentious."
"It does," I deadpan, "but I like it anyway."
He chuckles, shaking his head, and I can tell he's pleased. There's something addictive about this version of Theo—focused, vulnerable in the way he shares ideas that mean something to him. Like he's not just showing me a project but a piece of himself, raw, untouched, unfinished.
We finish the meeting quickly after that, exchanging a few more practical details—deadlines, locations, camera rentals. I promise to sketch some visual concepts tonight.
