Hi, I'm Kamila!

In April 2026 I travelled through Madeira — from misty forests and volcanic coastlines to mountain peaks, levadas, waterfalls, and cliffs falling straight into the Atlantic. I wanted to capture not only the island’s dramatic landscapes, but also its quieter details: leaves holding rain, clouds moving through valleys, ocean foam on black stone, and the strange stillness of ancient trees in the fog. Madeira quickly became one of my favourite places on Earth. These are the moments that made the island feel alive.

In September 2025 I traveled through Slovenia — from the Julian Alps to lakes, rivers, and small valleys. I wanted to capture not only the famous places like Bled, but also the quiet details: animals on the trails, changing light in the forest, and the mist that makes the mountains feel alive. These are the moments of the second week of September.

A collection of fleeting stillness and vivid color - from the quiet elegance of flamingos in reflective waters to the warmth of coastal stone, Mediterranean skies and blooming city corners. I’ve returned to this part of Spain many times — not chasing something new, but letting the familiar shift each time I see it again. The apartment stays the same. The sea breeze still wraps around the same corners. But the light changes. And I notice more. These photos come from slow days near the coast, from short drives inland, from the quiet surprise of flamingoes in the morning haze. They’re not about landmarks — but about how stillness takes shape when it returns, and deepens.

Japan was everything I imagined. Neon buzz, vending machines, paper walls, temples in the middle of cities. It was order and wildness. Stillness and noise. And I was there — halfway a local, halfway a dreamer. I lived in Tokyo for a while. Worked, studied, explored. Laughed, translated, got lost in train lines and konbini snacks. It felt like freedom. Not the loud kind — the kind that lets you breathe a little deeper, even if you're not fully sure who you are yet. These photos are part memory, part distance. They’re what I saw while living inside something I’d waited years to reach — and what I’d love to see again, next time, with eyes that are fully mine. A place I once called home. Still echoing in dreams.

Not just tulips. But also bikes parked forever, sleepy ducks in windows, and streets that smell like sugar and sea air.

San Francisco in fragments: bold colors, steep streets, and sunlight that insists on being part of the story. Not a travel guide — just the parts that made me pause.

This isn’t the glossy version. It’s Ireland the way it felt — cliffs, clouds, and quiet edges. The kind of views that don’t ask to be photographed… but I did anyway. I lived there long enough for the rain to feel normal and the stillness to settle in. Not the Ireland from brochures — but the one where the green is always damp, and the cliffs look better without sun. These photos aren’t stories. They’re fragments — from walks and pauses in a place I once called home. I didn’t leave because it wasn’t beautiful. I left because sometimes beauty isn’t enough to make something yours forever.

Not the noise — the pauses in between. A flicker of light on glass, a stranger’s silhouette, a shadow crossing your path. This is the quiet heartbeat of the city.

Not everything that flies sings pretty. These are the untamed ones — the bold, sharp, and weather-worn. They carry their own rhythm, their own gravity. And even if they don’t sing for you, they make you look twice.

Quiet waters, quiet wings. In this stillness, the elegance of water birds becomes poetry. Their reflections blur the line between the world and its echo. This is a soft kind of wild — where silence ripples and grace floats.

Not all wild things live far away. Sometimes the smallest birds carry the biggest presence — in the flick of a wing, in a sideways glance. This collection is about proximity: how beauty sometimes lands quietly just outside your window.

Some were behind glass. Some watched me more than I watched them. This isn’t wilderness — it’s something quieter. But they still made me stop.

They never shout. They just wait — still, enormous, grounding. I’ve always felt the pull of altitude. Not for the victory at the top, but for the silence that lives up there — the kind that wraps around you and says: you’re here now — and that’s enough. These photos are from places where I forgot the world below. Where the climb cursed my legs, and the view calmed my heart. Where freedom felt earned — and necessary to keep.

The Tatra Mountains have always felt like home to me. There’s something about the air up there — the quiet, the views, the sense of space. I don’t go for records or peaks. I go for the feeling. These photos are from the hikes that stayed with me — the ones that made me slow down, breathe deeper, and feel like myself.

Not lost — just very, very far from anything else. Moss, mist, and the sound of your own breath. This is where time moves differently.

It rose while the world was still quiet. It set while I was still holding on. These are the moments when light makes everything feel possible — or like it’s gently saying goodbye.

Night didn’t ask me for permission. It just showed up, quietly magnificent. These are the moments I whispered back.

Not meant to be understood. Just seen. Or touched, maybe. Emotion caught in light, without needing a reason.

Closer than comfort. Every detail becomes a world. Sometimes, meaning lives in the small things we almost missed.