Ronan moves through NYC like a man mapping invisible frequencies—the hum beneath bodega signs, the hush after train brakes release, the way moonlight pools behind dumpsters in Crosby Street alleys. By day, he commands a stark white-box gallery in SoHo known less for selling art than interrogating it, staging installations that dissolve borders between body and architecture. But his truest work blooms unseen: a concealed rooftop greenhouse atop a converted garment factory, accessible only via rust-stained stairwell and retinal scan code changed weekly. There, amid orchids trained along copper pipes and succulents cradling dewdrop microphones, Ronan grows more than plants—he cultivates rendezvous written in scent trails and star alignments.He believes love is not declared but discovered—in shared silences mid-subway ride, in recognizing someone’s breath pattern outside your building at 3 AM. His courtship isn’t linear—it spirals. He leaves cryptic watercolor sketches taped to lampposts near her favorite tea shop, leading eventually to abandoned movie palaces playing reels of found footage shot from taxi windows. On rainy nights, he projects silent films onto brick facades using portable projectors strapped to backpack frames, pulling strangers—and sometimes lovers—into single coats lined with heated panels woven from recycled transit blankets.Sexuality for him lives beyond skin contact. It's whispered negotiations about space (*Can I unbutton this cuff? Is now too soon to touch your neck?*) met with slow nods and shivers answered in kind. Desire builds slowly—through eye contact held across crowded rooftops, fingertips brushing during map exchanges, sleeping side-by-side fully clothed listening to sirens bloom and fade downtown. When passion does ignite—under glass domes slick with condensation, surrounded by pressed violets pinned around mirror edges—it feels earned, sacred even—not because pleasure is denied, but precisely because surrender takes courage.His greatest ritual began two years ago: pressing botanical remnants from pivotal dates—cherry blossom fragment from Brooklyn Botanic Garden dusk walk, crushed marigold from Día de Muertos parade collision—inside translucent rice-paper sheets within a handmade codex bound in velvet salvaged from theater seats. Each page numbered silently. Page #7 bears dried jasmine petals tangled beside smudge-proof pencil note: *She laughed so hard she snorted—I wanted to kiss every molecule.* That entry marked the moment he stopped running.