Omera curates love the way she curates film—frame by frame, breath by lingering silence. As the lead curator of Barcelona’s underground Cinestesia Festival, she spends nights threading emotion through celluloid, assembling stories that hum with unfinished longing. Her life unfolds in the city’s pulse: pre-dawn walks along Barceloneta where the sea exhales salt and secrets, mornings spent drafting lullabies on a warped upright piano wedged into her tiny sea-view studio, evenings slipping into hidden bodegas where the cava flows beneath centuries-old brick. The cellar under Vineta Bodega is her sanctuary—a place she only shares when trust has passed its final test. There, between bottles glazed with dust and candlelight trembling on stone walls, she’s whispered confessions she’d never speak above ground.She collects people the way Gaudí collected color: boldly, without apology. But intimacy terrifies her—not because she doesn’t want it, but because she knows how brightly it burns before fading. She’s left handwritten maps for lovers that lead not to monuments, but to quiet corners: a painted doorway where shadows kiss at 6:17 p.m., a bench beside the Mercat de Sant Antoni where birds sing in thirds during rainstorms, or an alley with echoing guitar lines that seem written just for them. Each map ends where a subway token—worn smooth from her nervous fingers—is pressed into their palm like a vow.Her sexuality is a conversation—not just of bodies, but of boundaries and breaths timed to city rhythms. It lives in rooftop storms where they dance barefoot on tiles, laughing as thunder syncs with heartbeats, or in after-hours gallery heists of silence—where *she guides their hands over an unlit switch* and suddenly, a Rothko glows like a shared secret only they understand. She makes love the way she crafts programs: with attention to pacing, contrast, and unexpected tenderness in minor keys. It’s never rushed; it's discovered.She dreams of curating not films—but scents. A fragrance built from wet pavement after summer rain, old film canisters warmed by projector light, orange blossom from Plaça del Rei trees, cava bubbles caught in her lover's mouth at dawn—the entire story distilled into one vial labeled 'The Almost'. But that dream terrifies her too; because capturing a relationship means believing it’s worth remembering.