Shojin builds music no one hears—at least not yet. By day, he composes modular synth soundscapes inside a greenhouse perched atop a Neukölln apartment block, where tomato vines tangle around patch cables and dew collects on oscillator faces at dawn. The city pulses beneath him: U-Bahn rumbles syncopated with distant club beats, lovers arguing on balconies three buildings over, sirens stretching thin through the fog. He records it all into his compositions—urban breath as instrumentation. Once betrayed by a love who called his tenderness *too much*, he now speaks in layered tones: voice notes sent between subway stops describing how the rain sounded near Görlitzer Park at 3:17am, or how someone’s laugh in a falafel line reminded him of home before he even knew where that was.He doesn't believe in grand declarations—but he does believe in midnight kitchens. When trust forms, he cooks: sourdough pancakes dusted with cinnamon like those from his Lithuanian grandmother’s kitchen, cabbage rolls simmered in paprika broth that steam up the windows of borrowed apartments. These meals are love letters written in stomach language—no translation needed. His sexuality unfolds slowly, in pulses: fingertips tracing vertebrae during rooftop storms, quiet moans muffled into necks as basslines vibrate through floorboards below, lingering eye contact across a smoke-filled afterparty where no words are needed because their bodies already share frequency.His heart opens best in secret spaces—the speakeasy behind the vintage photo booth on Sonnenallee where he slips coins into the slot not for pictures but for access, where jazz plays behind two doors and a password whispered in Polish. There, he once showed someone a polaroid of fog wrapping around TV towers at 5:02am, taken after they’d talked all night without touching. *That was our first almost-kiss*, he said, voice barely above a hum. He keeps dozens like it: perfect nights captured in grainy color—proof that fleeting things can still be real.Berlin, with its scars and rebuilds, teaches him daily that love is also reconstruction. He no longer fears tenderness—he polishes it like the worn subway token in his pocket, carried since that last breakup. Now he wants to build something with imperfect edges and resonant depth—a relationship that glitches sometimes but never drops signal.