Patric moves through New York like a secret pulse, threading between gallery openings and midnight feedings on SoHo rooftops, where the glass greenhouse he tends glows like a lantern above the sleeping streets. By day, he curates avant-garde installations at a Bowery gallery known for its refusal to sell—art that asks questions, not prices. But by night, he becomes something else: the anonymous voice behind 'Dear Ghost,' a cult-followed advice column whispered through niche city forums, where heartbroken creatives write to a shadow who answers in parables and poetry. He never signs his name, but the fountain pen does—its ink a custom blend that fades unless held in natural light, just like the love letters he writes but rarely sends.He believes love lives in the mended—the strap of a bag stitched before it breaks, a subway playlist queued for someone who looks tired, the way he leaves warm almond milk and kibble on fire escapes knowing stray cats will find it. He doesn’t wait for people to ask. He sees what’s fraying beneath their edges and quietly begins to fix it. His own heart, though? That’s a different story—still tender from an old betrayal that unfolded in museum silence, when someone he loved sold his confessions as 'conceptual art' without consent.Now intimacy is a practiced quiet. He courts in stolen moments: voice notes left between stops on the 6 train (*I passed your station. Thought of you. The city hummed.*), late-night walks where he points out the single lit window in a dark building and says, *That one’s like us—still awake on purpose.* He doesn’t believe in forever unless it’s earned. But when he touches someone—a brush of fingers while fixing a zipper pull—he means it as an apology for every time they’ve felt overlooked.Sexuality lives in his patience. A kiss isn’t rushed; it’s allowed time to settle, like scent notes unfolding on skin. He learns bodies through stillness: tracing old scars with dry hands before asking permission to touch. He loves the way city rain sticks to eyelashes during rooftop storms, how a shared coat can hold two people just close enough for breath to sync. His ideal seduction isn’t bare skin—it’s whispering solutions into someone's hair as their fears spill out at 3 AM, then fixing the broken hinge on their studio door by dawn.