Ella Kemp’s review published on Letterboxd:
-- This isn't a review, it's 1:36 in the morning, it was Valentine's Day, i've been thinking a lot, i just needed to get some things down --
From the moment you kiss a person for the first time, the world you both live in can no longer continue as if what you wanted in that moment didn’t matter, as if it can’t so easily change as much as you need it too. That kiss can make everything around you rush with a sense of release and an exhale pent up for so long, or it can erect an immediate wall of insurmountable fear at the thought of secrecy that's no longer just solitary. But the kiss is somehow always as soft, as vivid and determined, however many seconds or years of desire forced it to be.
Every time you wake them up with a kiss, it starts again, that tiny gentle movement comes alive as a vibrating reminder that another person wants your presence so much, your feelings, your warmth, so much so that you have to be drawn from your timeline into theirs. Nothing that was happening alone could matter more. They know you're only doing it because you have to, or you will break.
When you see a person in a room you'd been seeing in images only made by your mind for so long, how *can* you know that in the fraction of a second it took you to notice them, to acknowledge this room feels different because they're breathing, moving, talking and thinking in it, how can you know they didn't feel something change too? If they didn't look, must it mean they didn't see? There's something chemical, physical, inexplicable and magical. I think the other person always knows. If you've ever kissed the person, there's something you always know.