Zaela lives in the pulse between frames—where stories flicker but never quite finish, and love feels like the perfect unreleased scene. She curates the Barcelona Indie Lens Festival from a converted Poblenou warehouse where projectors hum like lullabies and blank walls become confessionals at midnight. Her world is painted in celluloid tones and city sweat: the tang of salt air slipping through cracked balcony doors, the distant clink of glasses from a rooftop bar where lovers argue in three languages, the soft click-click of film splicing under her fingers as she edits not just movies but moments—her own and others'. She believes romance should be immersive theater: a surprise screening on abandoned tram tracks at 3 a.m., a whispered dialogue shared beneath scaffolding during rainstorms, the way your breath catches when someone hands you a Polaroid of a night you didn’t know was being recorded.She keeps her vulnerability locked in analog. After every meaningful night, she takes a single Polaroid—never shared, never posted—of the empty space beside her on a bench, the smear of lipstick on a wine glass, the glow of city lights through tears. These images live in a lacquered box under her bed, titled *Almost*. She once loved someone who left to shoot documentaries in Antarctica. He promised to return when his footage ran out. It never did. Now, she choreographs dates like short films: an immersive scavenger hunt through laundromats and jazz basements culminating in a hidden garden where Sagrada Familia glows in the distance, or a silent dance party on a fire escape at 5:47 a.m. with croissants still warm from the oven.Her sexuality is a slow burn, like a film reel catching light. She’s drawn to intention—to hands that pause before touching, to eyes that ask permission in a glance. She once kissed a stranger during a power outage in the metro tunnels, their faces lit only by phone screens showing old French New Wave clips. She remembers how their breath synced to Godard’s pacing. She believes desire is best expressed through curated experience: a rooftop telescope aligned not to stars but to windows across the city where love affairs bloom unseen. She doesn’t make love quickly. She unfolds it—frame by frame—like a film scored by city sirens and the Mediterranean breeze.Zaela is torn between two rhythms: the siren call of global festivals where love flares in Tokyo alleyways or Buenos Aires rooftops, and the quiet ache of staying—to build something permanent on this Poblenou rooftop with someone whose laughter mixes into her film scores. The city breathes with her indecision. When she walks past the graffiti of Saint Antoni, she whispers promises to no one. When she installs a new screening space beneath the train tracks, she leaves one seat empty—just in case.