I have written this many times and thrown it away, because every version sounded like a company talking.
So let me say it the way I would say it to you across a table.
Broken Hearts is not a love story. It is a way of seeing.
I did not need to start a jewellery brand. There was no calling, no family workshop, no night where everything turned around. It went this way, and I went with it, and it turned out to be the only honest way I had of saying how I feel.
On one thing, though, I have never agreed. We are taught that beauty is whatever survived intact: the face without marks, the voice that never shook, the surface with nothing to confess. I have not believed that for a single day. The people I find beautiful are not the ones without wounds. They are the ones you can see it on, and who stayed.
If Broken Hearts were a person, it would be someone who has been through something and refuses to perform it. Elegant, not eager to please. Quiet, not soft. Devoted to two or three things and indifferent to everything else. Someone who would rather be understood by very few than liked by many. Full of contradictions, the way anyone worth knowing is: tender and hard, grieving and vain, in love with ruins and determined not to become one.
I am insecure, like most people who make things. I did not defeat that and I am not going to pretend I did. What changed with time is smaller and more useful: I stopped asking the room what to think. The vision is clear even on the days I am not.
Every piece carries a fracture. I do not hide it and I do not apologise for it. It is not a defect we tolerate, it is the subject. It is also the only part that cannot be repeated, which makes it the only part that is truly yours. Perfection is interchangeable. Perfect things belong to nobody.
And because these pieces are how I feel, they are allowed to change. One of them may stop saying anything to me, and I will make another one instead. That is not inconsistency. It is the premise: this is a life being worn, not a catalogue being managed.
With you it works the other way round. A piece is not chosen for a season: it is chosen once and then worn, for years, until the silver darkens where your hand touches it and the scratches stop being mine and start being yours. It is born with one fracture, and you give it the rest. I will never come to tell you that it went out of fashion. A piece like this is not replaced: it is worn, it is used up, it is left to someone.
Nothing here exists before you ask for it. There is no warehouse behind this page, no shelf with your piece already on it.
When you ask, the piece begins. The technique is called lost-wax casting, and the name says everything: for your piece to exist, something has to be lost. The wax burns away, the mould is broken to free the metal. It is born like that, and it passes through more hands than you would imagine. That is why you wait. The wait is not a delay. It is the proof that no one had it before you.
The rest of the technical part I will spare you. How long it takes, who may order what, what happens when a piece is withdrawn: it is written elsewhere on this site, and written honestly. This page is for the one thing I actually need you to know.
You are not buying jewellery. You are telling me that we agree on something. That what broke and refused to disappear is worth more than what was never touched, because it has been somewhere and it came back.
If this reaches you, it was made for you. If it does not, I would rather it this way: you keep your money, and the piece goes on not existing.