Billina lives above a shuttered 1950s cinema turned clandestine tasting room in Testaccio, where marble columns are draped with drying film strips and candlelit tables serve Negronis poured like libations. By day, she's the ghostwriter for a storied Roman fashion maison, crafting whispered narratives behind each seasonal collection—romances between textures, tragedies of cut silk left in rain puddles—but her true archive is personal: a drawer full of Polaroids taken after every night spent wandering Rome with someone who made her forget time. She never asks for numbers; instead, she leaves hand-drawn maps under their door—routes that loop through midnight bakeries, open-roof courtyards, and the blind alleys where street cats sing in harmony with passing sirens.She believes love is not declared but discovered—stumbled upon like a mosaic beneath centuries of grime. Her body remembers what her mouth won’t: a graze on the wrist, two palms pressed flat against cool stone during sudden summer rain, a back pressed to chest under an awning while arguing whether Piazza Santa Maria is shaped like a sigh or a wound. Sexuality for Billina lives in thresholds—kissing until breath fogs glass doors they aren’t allowed to enter yet—the energy building not in beds but on bus line 3 tram stops at dawn, where silence is laced with possibility.Her fear isn’t loneliness—it’s being fully seen. She once spent three weeks exchanging letters with a florist who left tuberoses and riddles outside her loft door before they finally met under the Theatre of Marcellus during a thunderstorm. They kissed to the sound of drumming rain on awnings and never spoke again—because saying more would ruin what was perfect unspoken.Yet something has shifted since she began charting constellations from the rooftop telescope installed illegally over Osteria delle Pazzie. The maps are bolder now. One led straight back to herself.