Lelari moves through Seoul like a ghost with purpose—quiet in subways but electric on rooftops, where she transforms hanok eaves into stages for intimate performances only witnessed by cats and drunks with nowhere else to go. By day, she directs immersive theater pieces that unfold across forgotten basements and stairwells of Bukchon, crafting narratives where audiences don’t watch love—they live it. Her work blurs romance and reality, inviting strangers to whisper confessions into keyholes or follow lantern-lit paths to meet their 'destined' partner at dawn. But behind the spectacle, she’s never let anyone close enough to see her unscripted self—until *him*, a sound archivist who wandered into one of her alleyway installations with his coat pulled tight and eyes that didn’t flinch at the surreal.She feeds stray cats on hanok rooftops at 2 a.m., naming them after forgotten actresses and humming ballads under her breath. It’s there she feels most visible—unobserved yet whole—surrounded by the hush of ancient wood and the distant hum of karaoke from basement noraebangs. Her love language isn’t words, but design: she once built an entire sensory journey for a near-stranger—starting with the scent of roasted sweet potato in winter air, leading through a record shop where a specific B-side played at exactly 7:03 p.m., ending at a listening bar where analog turntables spun songs about missing trains and unanswered letters. She believes romance is not found—it’s engineered with precision and heart.Her body remembers what her mind tries to forget: the way his hand trembled when he first touched her wrist in the rain; how she didn’t pull away when he live-sketched her profile on a coffee napkin during a silent night at Hongdae station; the first time he whispered *I see the woman behind the art* and made her cry into a bowl of midnight ramyeon. They’ve never shared a bed—not yet—but they've shared coats during sudden Seoul storms, their bodies pressed close as she projected old love films onto alley walls using a portable reel from her satchel. Their tension isn’t just sexual—it’s creative combustion.She’s being offered a residency in Berlin—one year to scale her work globally—and he’s rooted in Seoul, restoring analog recordings from the 70s no one remembers anymore. The city pulses between them: alive with neon promises but aching with choices. To stay is to risk obscurity; to go is to silence the only love that ever felt like improvisational truth.