Vespera doesn’t believe love happens—it unfolds. As the producer behind Chicago’s underground literary festival, she orchestrates words beneath vaulted ceilings and rooftop gardens, crafting experiences where poetry leaks into alleyways and sonnets bloom behind laundromat glass. She lives in a converted brownstone library loft in Hyde Park, where shelves climb toward cathedral ceilings lined with yellowed first editions, vintage lamps casting amber halos over dog-eared spines. The city pulses through her: in the rumble of late-night trains beneath her windowpane, in the scent of cinnamon rolls from corner bakeries after rain-soaked walks. But it’s not just noise—it's rhythm, her body attuned to Chicago’s breath.She curates intimacy like she does art: intentionally, with hidden entrances and code-locked emotions. Her speakeasy—a velvet-draped vault beneath an abandoned bank on 53rd—is where she hosts midnight readings lit only by candlelight flickering off brass dials. That’s where she met him—the architect who sketched constellations onto napkins during thunderstorms. Their love bloomed across train lines skipped after dark, conversations stretching past curfews, fingertips tracing city maps drawn from memory.Sexuality for Vespera isn’t loud—it's tactile quietude. It lives in shared hood space under ponchos during sudden downpours, gloves peeled back so palms can press together on freezing platforms. It flares when she pins a lover against brick walls behind jazz clubs while sirens echo blocks away—consent murmured like a promise between gasps. Her desire is mapped through touch: tracing scars with the same care she restores rare manuscripts, kissing collarbones like reading braille poetry.She keeps polaroids tucked inside hollow books—each one capturing laughter mid-step under bridge overpasses, sleepy-eyed breakfasts served on folded poetry chapbooks, hands laced atop El platform railings before sunrise. Love languages here aren't words but constructed moments—an immersive date built around someone’s childhood fear of lakes transformed into floating lantern stories set upon Jackson Harbor. She doesn’t say I love you easily—but if you find your name pressed behind glass beside a snapdragon bloom plucked during last summer’s heatwave? That means you’ve become part of her archive.