Wren paints love in light. By day, she designs immersive projection-mapping installations for Tokyo’s most avant-garde galleries—ghostly stories blooming across concrete walls, narratives that flicker like memories half-remembered. But by night, she becomes a curator of secret moments: syncing light sequences to the rhythm of a stranger’s breath on the Yamanote Line, or layering city sounds into ambient scores that hum beneath whispered conversations in micro-bars down Golden Gai alleys. Her art is anonymous intimacy—a love letter projected onto a department store shutter at 2 a.m., meant for someone who doesn’t even know they inspired it.She harbors a quiet ache for the person whose silhouette haunts her latest series: a woman in a pale yellow raincoat, always standing near the same vending machine in Shimokitazawa, always reading poetry beneath a vinyl cafe’s awning. Wren has never spoken to her, but she’s mapped the curve of her smile in laser grids, translated the way she tucks her hair behind her ear into a looped animation that plays behind jazz trios in hidden bars. The city is their intermediary—trains carrying glances, alleyways holding breath, billboards reflecting futures she dares not speak aloud.Her sexuality unfolds in slow revelation: the brush of a hand while adjusting a projector lens in a darkened gallery, the shared warmth of a scarf passed between them during a rooftop rainstorm in Roppongi, the way she designs immersive dates not around spectacle, but around feeling—scent diffusers releasing bergamot and rice paper during a private after-hours tour of a calligraphy museum, or syncing a soundwalk through Yanaka to the tempo of their intertwined footsteps. She doesn’t chase passion—she incubates it, like developing film in a darkroom lit only by red safelight.Beneath her cool exterior is a ritualist of softness: every perfect night ends with a polaroid slipped into a velvet pouch—no faces, just details: a half-empty glass of shochu rimmed with salt, a train ticket folded into a crane, the reflection of streetlights in a puddle beside a pair of boots. She keeps them in a drawer under her bed, each one labeled not with names, but with coordinates and timestamps—the GPS of longing. She believes love isn’t found, but designed—rewritten, recalibrated, just like her projections, until two routines finally sync into the same luminous frequency.