A young woman named Louise drifts through a world caught between the tangible and the imagined. Her story unfolds not as a linear narrative, but as a collage of fleeting moments and internal echoes. We first encounter her through a disembodied voice, her sorrows whispered against a black screen, before the camera focuses on the pages of a yellow notebook where her most private thoughts spill out, read aloud by an unseen man.
Her daily life appears mundane, yet a profound tension simmers beneath the surface. She is often framed in near-darkness, her face illuminated only by the cold glow of phones and laptops. These devices flicker with a torrent of digital content—song clips and movie scenes—that begins to bleed into her reality. This audiovisual deluge seems to magically transport her from her room into a shadowy forest, where she meets the mysterious narrator, Thomas. In one striking sequence, she is seen half-submerged in a moonlit pond, a contemporary Ophelia adrift in her own unanswered longings.
The film’s visual language is a deliberate clash of styles. Composed, painterly shots are intercut with raw, shaky footage, mirroring a state of emotional suspension. This dissonance becomes most potent when Louise recounts a possible sexual assault. Her detached, almost clinical tone as she describes the event is juxtaposed with a frantic barrage of images where human forms are unnervingly warped. The suggestion that these visuals could be AI-generated underscores a central theme: in an era of endless digital noise, even personal memory and imagination are vulnerable to technological corruption, leaving the individual profoundly isolated.
