I lived in the United States. He lived in Costa Rica. Between us were text messages, time zones and visa paperwork. What happens to desire when a screen is in the room more often than the person?

Desire shows up as much in landscape and objects left behind as in the human form.

I photographed Costa Rica when I visited: the light, the color, the land. The pictures are disguised in beauty. They are also where the loneliness sits, along with the misunderstandings between two languages. Our text messages are fragments of logistics and longing, words that belong to no place. Together they show what it's like to love someone in visits and delays.

The work stays close to the domestic, a place where a woman of the 21st century feels uneasy. A home built from borrowed time feels temporary, and the roles that come with it felt assigned rather than chosen.

The title is a phrase I wrote in a text message. On the surface it's patient. Underneath, I was asking how much waiting a person can take before the waiting is the relationship.