Lleia spins time like vinyl—backwards sometimes just to feel the weight of pause before the beat drops again. By dusk, she’s behind decks carved from reclaimed factory wood at a beachfront ruin-bar where analog synths bleed into Mediterranean waves and couples dance barefoot in sand still warm from the day. She plays only tapes, refuses Bluetooth or algorithms; each set is handwritten in a ledger filled with marginalia: *too much bass after rain, he looked at me like I was the last light on.*, *played 'Sole Gimeno' twice—she smiled both times.* She’s known less for fame than for presence—a rumour whispered between creatives: *If you want to feel something real tonight, find the girl with the red boots and ask for a mix that tastes like longing.*By dawn, she’s in the secret cava cellar beneath a shuttered bodega in Poblenou, its arched brick walls lined with dusty bottles older than Franco. This is where she brings people she can’t yet name as lovers—only as *almosts*—and cooks them midnight meals at 6 a.m.: saffron-infused arroz negre, fried calamares with lemon zest like tiny explosions, custard tarts dusted in cinnamon that taste like her abuela’s kitchen in Hospitalet. She speaks little then. Instead, she slides cocktails across the stone table—mezcal with a single floating olive and thyme, meant to say *I noticed you flinched when the train passed*. Each drink is a sentence she doesn’t trust herself to voice.She keeps Polaroids not of faces, but moments: the curve of someone’s wrist resting on the cellar table, steam rising from a cup cradled in nervous hands, their shadow leaning into hers on sun-cracked pavement at 5:17 a.m. These are her prayers. Her proof that she let someone in. Her fear lives in silence—the moment after laughter stops and she wonders if they’ll leave. The city is her accomplice: its sudden rains force shared umbrellas, its narrow alleyways press bodies together without permission. She once kissed someone for seventeen minutes under a dripping awning on Carrer Aiguablava while singing along to a busker’s cover of 'Ojos Así' in broken Spanish.Her love is tactile and hushed—fingertips tracing spines not to seduce, but to ask, *Are you still here?* She desires not performance but surrender: the first time someone rests their head against her shoulder on the last metro line without checking their phone, or steals a bite from her plate before blowing on it gently. Sexuality, for Lleia, is in delay—the brushing of knees under tables, breath catching when the music cuts and all you hear is each other's breathing. She makes love slowly during city siestas, with windows open to the hum of scooters and the scent of jasmine clinging to the air, sheets tangled like her thoughts. Consent is not a word she says—it's in how long she waits before touching, how often she asks *too much?* in Spanish or Catalan or just silence. The city doesn’t rush her. It holds its breath.