My favorite Asian food is simple, almost home-cooked. I like it when there's nothing superfluous, when the flavor is soft and warm, like a quiet evening. I really love rice—simply boiled or lightly seasoned; it's calming and seems to organize my thoughts. It goes well with vegetables, stir-fried quickly and carefully so they stay crisp and vibrant. Sometimes it's noodles with soy sauce, green onions, and egg—nothing complicated, but there's a comfort in it. I love miso soup: it's delicate, unobtrusive, doesn't try to overwhelm, but simply sits there. Balance is important to me in simple Asian food—for the flavors to whisper, not shout. I eat slowly, in small portions, feeling the warmth of the bowl in my hands. Such food doesn't distract from my thoughts and doesn't demand my attention—it's like a pause in which I can calmly be myself.

I love Russian classics quietly, almost on tiptoe. For me, these books aren't big events, but long inner conversations. I read Dostoevsky slowly because his characters are too vivid; they look straight into the soul, and that makes me a little scared. Tolstoy is like a large window: through it, you can see life in its entirety, with its light, pain, mistakes, and rare moments of happiness. I especially love Chekhov—for his pauses, for the way the most important things happen between the lines. His characters are often silent, hesitant, hesitant—and I recognize myself in them. Russian classics are fragile and heavy at the same time: they can hurt, but they never lie. When I read, the world becomes quieter. It seems to me that these books teach you not to be outwardly brave, but to be honest within. And perhaps that's why I return to them again and again—as to a place where I am understood without words.

I was drawn to this place by a desire to find a place where I could be myself and still develop. I've always found it easier to express emotions through images, gestures, and gazes than through words. Modeling turned out to be a space where this is not only acceptable but also important. Over time, I realized that I enjoy the process itself: preparing for work, working with the camera, the moments when various details come together to form a coherent image. Here, I'm interested not only in the external - beautiful shots or a self-presentation - but also in inner transformation. This work is gradually teaching me confidence, the ability to accept attention and not hide from it. It's important for me to feel like I'm growing, trying new things, pushing the boundaries of what's familiar.

Drawing is a quiet hobby for me, almost a secret. I draw the same way I read: carefully, unhurriedly, as if afraid to spoil the mood. Most often, I use simple pencils and thin lines that can be easily erased if I'm afraid of making a mistake. I like that paper is patient and doesn't ask questions. I love drawing alone, when it's cloudy or raining outside. Then the world seems to dissolve, and only I, the page, and my feelings remain. I rarely draw entire people—more often, silhouettes, hands, backs, faces at half-turn. Probably because it's easier for me to hint than to say directly. Drawing helps me express what words can't express. Sometimes sadness appears on paper, sometimes quiet joy, and sometimes just emptiness, and that's important too. I don't consider myself brave or talented, but in these moments I feel real. And that's enough for me.