I don't write to comfort you.

Thousands of writers will do that beautifully. Writers who will hand you a warm resolution, a character arc that restores your faith in people, and an ending that lets you close the book and go to sleep feeling safe.

I am not one of them.

I write about the things we'd rather not examine—AI that knows you better than you know yourself, divine justice that turns out to be real and perfectly calibrated, a thirty-second video that ends a life, a daughter who built her career on accountability and now has to decide if it applies to her own father.

I write about the gap between who we think we are and who we actually are. That gap is where all my stories live.

The discomfort is the point because the stories that stay with you—the ones that surface at 2 am three weeks later—are never the comfortable ones.

Yeah, that is not happening any time soon. But you can always read my work.

Substack is one of the platforms where I'm most active. You will find quite a few short UFiction stories there, and you will get to know me better.

Actually, no. You will get to know yourself better. But that's the point.

The question that never leaves me: what if we've been wrong about everything?

Wrong about God—not whether he exists, but what he actually wants. Wrong about love—not whether it's real, but whether we're even capable of it without assistance. Wrong about progress—not whether it's happening, but what exactly we're progressing toward.

Dostoevsky asked uncomfortable questions and called it literature. So did Camus. So did Kafka, who somehow wrote an entire bureaucratic nightmare and made it feel like a Tuesday.

I'm less interested in answers than in the precise moment a person realizes their map of the world is wrong. That moment—the intake of breath before the freefall—is where every story I write begins.