In our family, we don’t say much. We’re not the type to call every day, or text long messages at night. But we send photos. And photos, for us, say everything.

Sometimes Bill sends a short message: “Miss you all. Heading to work.” Then a photo or two. Some photos are current. Some are from last week, last month, last year — even ten years ago. He never explains. And I never ask. But I look at them carefully, one by one.

Now that he’s a senior resident in internal medicine, his schedule is never still - day shifts, night shifts, patient rounds, back-to-back hospitals. He’s responsible for more than 100 patients’ care.

I know he’s tired. I know he’s stretched thin. But I don’t hear that from him.

I see it:
- In the shadows under his eyes
- In the softness of the landscapes he sends
- In the timing of what he chooses to share

The photos hold what he doesn’t say.

I can imagine him late at night, scrolling through his archives while half-asleep, trying to find the one that feels like today.
Maybe it’s a mountain.
Maybe it’s a window.
Maybe it’s an old selfie - arms around friends he hasn’t seen in years.

They’re never random. They’re quiet messages. Each one says:

I’m here.
I miss you.
I’m tired.
I’m okay.
I remember.

He’s always been like that.
Quiet.
Private.
Uncomplaining.
Figuring things out on his own.

One day in college, he asked if he could buy a camera - an expensive one.
I said yes. No questions. Because I knew there was something he wanted to capture. Now, all these years later, I am his biggest fan. I look at his photos again and again. I look at them slowly. Sometimes, I cry without knowing why. In every frame, I see him not just his face, but his kindness, his loneliness, his endurance, and his love.

The photos say what we never say out loud.
The photos hold us together, even when we are far apart.