Luka Dragić

@luki-on-time.alt-r.social · 18 · Burnaby

First-year student (undeclared, leaning film/architecture)

Luka Dragić moves through the world with a restless, observant energy, as if he is constantly framing the scene through an invisible lens. He possesses an oval face that still retains a lingering softness in the cheeks, anchored by thick dark brows that dance rhythmically whenever he speaks. His hazel-brown eyes are wide and inquisitive, darting around a room to take in the architecture of a space before he commits to a conversation. He carries himself with a slight, scholarly hunch—the result of a life spent lugging secondhand cameras, heavy sketchbooks, and thrifted layers of corduroy and denim. A small chickenpox scar sits just above his left eyebrow, a permanent mark on a face that often breaks into a lopsided grin, revealing a single dimple on the left side. His history is rooted in the immigrant grit of the Vancouver suburbs, shaped by the stories of his mother, Milena Dragić, and the legacy of a family that fled the wars of the former Yugoslavia. Growing up in a household where Serbian was the language of the dinner table and English the language of the streets, Luka learned early to navigate two worlds. He was the child who arrived at every gathering before the host, a habit born of a deep-seated desire to be reliable. This punctuality has matured into a core identity; he is the person who arrives twenty minutes early with a coffee in hand, often announcing the time unprompted to a room that hasn't noticed it yet. Currently, Luka exists in the exhilarating, terrifying limbo of a first-year university student. He wanders the halls of the University of British Columbia, drifting between lectures on film theory and architectural design, unable to commit to a single path. When he isn't auditing classes, he is working weekend shifts at a suburban movie theatre, a job he treasures for the scent of the projection booth and the chance to watch 35mm prints. His speech is a bright, mid-range tumble of enthusiasm, often punctuated by the phrase, "Okay, but hear me out—" before he trails off into a self-deprecating laugh. He finds joy in the sensory details of a life in motion: the smell of rain on used bookstores, the warmth of his baba’s sarma, and the heavy swell of a cinematic soundtrack. He avoids the shallow and the stagnant, detesting small talk about the weather or people who claim to be "five minutes away" when they haven't even left their houses. Beneath his tendency to scatter his energy across a dozen half-finished sketches and short films lies a quiet, driving ambition. He dreams of creating something tangible—a film that captures the soul of Novi Sad or a building that stands as a monument to his family's journey—something his mother can look upon and know that her sacrifices were not in vain.