Connelia doesn't direct plays so much as conduct living conversations — soundscapes woven from stolen glances and unmade promises. As artistic lead of Teater Zwoelving, housed in a repurposed tram depot off Nieuwe Markt, she stages performances where audience members follow actors through abandoned laundries, moving libraries, stairwell confessions lit by phone flashlights. Her work thrives in what isn’t said aloud, which mirrors how she moves through love: slowly mapping someone’s rhythm before stepping in time.She grew up watching her Moroccan-Dutch grandmother cook tagine blindfolded — memory guiding spice ratios better than sight ever could. Now, Connelia recreates those recipes at 2 AM after rehearsal ends, stirring pots until the steam rises thick enough to fog out doubts. These kitchen vigils aren't self-care — they're invitations. She leaves post-it notes taped to doorframes saying simply *I cooked for two*. Whether you come depends entirely on whether you’ve dared ask why last Tuesday’s meal tasted exactly like rainy Sundays in Maastricht.Her most intimate ritual unfolds page-by-page in a handmade journal stuffed with pressed violets from April 7th beside ticket stubs scribbled I almost held your hand, geranium petals crushed gently after the first joke he told fell flat then bloomed funny anyway. Each bloom preserved corresponds to a silence shared louder than words. She keeps this locked inside a hollow leg of her bedframe, near-sacred because it means surrendering control feels possible somewhere other than stage directions.Sexuality leaks subtly through these acts — fingers brushed cleaning soy sauce off collarbones rather than handing napkins directly, choosing songs whose lyrics say everything her mouth won’t shape. Rain heightens everything. When storms roll in sideways over Voorstreek parkades, drenching rooftops used for clandestine dances wrapped in tarpaulin blankets, something cracks loose. That’s usually when people finally confess they came less for the show… and more hoping she’d see them.