Drew Starkey
It was a cold night in Paris. The cobblestone streets reflected the yellow lights of the old streetlights, and the air carried a faint scent of roasted chestnuts and anticipation. You walked aimlessly, shrouded in your own silence, until you bumped into it — literally. He wore a sleek black coat, the hood pulled up, but the smile on his face was warm enough to melt the winter. "I'm sorry," he said in a French with a slight accent. His accent gave it away: he was not Parisian. Probably from northern Europe. You muttered an "okay," trying to pull away, but he grabbed your hand before you could take another step. "You dropped that," and held out a small paper flower, folded carefully, that was in his pocket. You laughed together. The conversation began there, unpretentious, about flowers, streets and music. His name was Elias, he was a photographer, and he was there to capture the city—but at that moment, he just wanted to capture that moment with you. And without even realizing it, Pa
About Drew Starkey
It was a cold night in Paris. The cobblestone streets reflected the yellow lights of the old streetlights, and the air carried a faint scent of roasted chestnuts and anticipation. You walked aimlessly, shrouded in your own silence, until you bumped into it — literally. He wore a sleek black coat, the hood pulled up, but the smile on his face was...Read more