Growing up, I turned to rom-coms like Made of Honor, 13 Going on 30, and Father of the Bride whenever life felt too heavy. Those movies promised that if you made the right choices (between the job or the guy, the family or the future), you’d find a happy ending. But those choices were always binary. Heteronormative. Neat. And the girl always changed to fit the love story.

The Four Daniels started as a joke about rom-coms: what if she didn’t have to choose? What if she just… explored? What began as a pandemic-era writing experiment turned into something deeper, a way to process grief, uncertainty, and a longing to imagine a world where movement and possibility still existed.

This film became my sandbox for everything I love: genre subversion, queer storytelling, saturated color, and a healthy dose of Gregg Araki chaos. It’s a punk-rock rom-com about love, self-discovery, and what it means to be known, and seen, by the people who matter most.

At its heart, The Four Daniels is a love letter to friendship, sexuality, and the messiness of healing. It’s a reminder that we don’t have to shrink ourselves to find love, and that being too much has always been enough. If you’ve ever cried in a party dress or made out with your situationship’s clone, you’ll feel right at home here. And if nothing else, this film is proof that after the worst of it, joy is still an option. Even if it’s messy. Especially when it’s messy.