Lilacs have always felt like some mirror of who I am. Whenever I see them, I feel that same subtle ache, the Sind that comes from holding something beautiful while already sensing how quickly it will fade. When I was younger, Lilacs always reminded of first love. Not the loud, certain kind, but the trembling beginning.
This book, Lilac, grew from that place, remembering someone I loved and lost, and feeling spring bloom in my chest with an ache I couldn’t name.
