Ladybug

With Ladybug, I wanted to explore the human need for connection, not just as a universal truth, but through the deeply personal lens of an artist, Grayson, who often flees from intimacy the moment it becomes messy. At its heart, the film is about that push and pull: the longing to be seen, and the fear of being truly known.

Diametrically, I also wanted to explore what it means to be someone who’s been denied the chance to connect at all, (Sawyer) someone whose true self was never given space to emerge. These two emotional forces, avoidance and deprivation, collide in the story, creating a relationship that is both haunting and hopeful.

Unlike my previous work, which leaned heavily on fast-paced plotting and sensory overload, I approached Ladybug with a more meditative tone. I wanted the story to breathe. I wanted the silences to speak. This shift was intentional, to give both the characters and the audience room to feel the weight of longing, grief, and slow-burning obsession.

The film opens in the 1980s during the era of the "Party Line;” a short-lived phone phenomenon that allowed strangers to connect over shared interests before the internet existed. In some small communities, it was a lifeline, a way to feel less alone. But it also opened the door to manipulation, fantasy, and danger. That dichotomy, between connection and deception, is woven throughout the film. Even in today’s world, with endless ways to reach out, the question remains: how well do we really know the people we let in?

Ladybug is a quiet ghost story. It’s also a love story. But mostly, it’s a meditation on what happens when two people, both shaped by loneliness in different ways, try to hold onto each other, no matter the cost.