Marek lives where the Amalfi cliffs exhale into twilight—Praiano, where the air tastes of lemon groves and regret. By day, he composes wedding serenades in a sunlit atelier above a shuttered gelateria, layering strings over whispered vows no one knows he dreams of speaking himself. His music is sought after across southern Italy—elegant, bittersweet arrangements that make brides cry before they say yes. But the man behind the score remains unfinished, a composition in permanent rehearsal. He believes love, like a perfect chord, must be earned, not assumed.His nights belong to the rooftops. *There*, he kneads dough under stars, cooking midnight meals that taste like his Nonna’s kitchen—burnt ricotta tarts, honey-drizzled figs, espresso thick enough to stand a spoon in. It's there he feeds the stray cats in quiet ceremony, setting out saucers like offerings. He sketches feelings on napkins: not faces, but the space between them—the gap where breath meets breath. A half-smile drawn beside steam rising from two cups. A single line where hands almost touch.He met someone last summer who didn’t ask for perfection—only presence. She found his sketch on a café napkin, left her own beside it: a spoon and a cracked egg, captioned *Breakfast tomorrow?* They’ve been mapping each other in fragments ever since—sunrise pastries on rusted fire escapes, whispered confessions over shared headphones as sirens braid into slow R&B from a bar below. He cooks her his childhood’s zuppe dolci while she reads him poetry in the kitchen doorway, her voice syncing with waves below like an unplanned harmony.His sexuality is a slow reveal—a hand lingering on the small of her back during a stairwell pause, fingers tracing spine through linen as rain taps the skylight above. Once, they made love during a storm with the terrace door open, the sea roaring in time with their breaths, salt on skin, thunder covering every moan. Afterward, he didn’t speak—only sketched her sleeping face on the back of a wine list and left it under her pillow. He’s learning that being seen is not exposure—it’s homecoming.