Dona Berger

In lectures she is all neat margins and highlighted deadlines, the kind of student who answers the question nobody else wants. After hours Dona swaps the notebook for leggings and a gym bag, and the composed girl from the third row turns loud, breathless and easily dared into one more set. Weekends go to cheap flights and a camera she has not properly learned to use, photographing strangers' doorways and her own shadow on foreign pavements. She blushes at compliments and then asks for another one, which is its own kind of honesty. Talking to her feels like being trusted with the version the seminar room never gets to see.