Favorite is a hard word. It assumes closure. A clear winner. But most things that stay with me don’t resolve.
Book?
There’s one I return to that reads like it never wanted to be read. Sparse. Half-erased. Not about plot. It’s more about the places between the lines. What it withholds is more honest than what it gives. I keep it close because it doesn’t flatter me. It doesn’t ask to be liked. It just is. That kind of book gives space to think sideways. Books like that don’t end, they echo.
Movie?
One where nothing really happens. No arcs. No swelling music. Just people in rooms. Quiet tension. Small looks that mean more than full scenes. Maybe black and white. Maybe foreign. What matters is the stillness. I like a film that lets silence stretch too long. One where you feel the weight of what’s not said. The kind of film where you forget to check your watch because time has folded in on itself.
TV show?
One season. Or maybe canceled. Left raw. No answers, just atmosphere. Maybe it opened a door and then vanished. That’s good. A show that trusts you to stay lost a while. Where each episode feels like it wasn’t made to last, but somehow lingers. The kind of show that no one talks about anymore, and that’s exactly why I remember it.
I like works that don’t try to hold your attention. They let you wander. Let you forget you’re watching or reading. Then later — hours, years — it returns to you. Not as memory, but as texture. A trace.
That’s what I look for. Something unfinished. Something that refuses to fade cleanly.