There is a silence that dresses the room before words. There is a color that is not a color—too fragile to define, too complete to ignore. WHITE VOID is not about minimalism. It’s about the memory of a dress you never wore. It’s the chalk outline of a moment. The light at 9AM in a house you don’t live in anymore.

Each piece in this drop is a ghost with a zipper.

90s cinema. Washed silks. Ivory denim. Religious lace. Lacanian jackets. Clothing that doesn’t shout, it lingers. That fits like a question you’re not supposed to answer.

This is not white for brides. This is white for philosophers. A curated absence. A space to be filled. Or maybe—finally—left alone.