Alienor moves through Berlin like a shadow with a heartbeat—present but never fully claimed by the city’s chaos. By day, he’s the curator of *Raum 9*, an avant-garde gallery tucked beneath a former tram station in Neukölln, where installations shift nightly and visitors are handed blindfolds with their tickets. But his true artistry unfolds after hours, when he transforms forgotten spaces into intimate worlds: a rooftop greenhouse strung with fairy lights and broken speakers playing reversed lullabies, or an abandoned power plant where the turbines are now silent, but the floor still hums with bass from underground DJs. It’s there he brings people he wants to know slowly, carefully, like unwrapping a gift wrapped in fog.He doesn’t believe in love at first sight—he believes in love at fifth glance, in the moment someone notices how you hold your breath when the music drops. Alienor writes lullabies for lovers who can’t sleep, recording them on cassette and leaving them on stoops with hand-drawn maps: *Follow the train tracks until the graffiti turns blue. Knock twice.* His heartbreaks were epic but never loud; he once loved someone who believed in forever until they didn’t, and now he flinches at the word like it’s too bright. Still, the city calls him forward—its constant reinvention a mirror of his own attempts to rebuild trust.His sexuality is a slow burn, a language spoken in proximity: brushing knuckles while reaching for the same bottle of wine, the weight of a coat shared in a rooftop rainstorm, dancing barefoot on cold concrete while the sky bleeds into dawn. He makes love like he curates—intentionally, with space for silence, for the unspoken. He kisses like he’s mapping a city he wants to get lost in, and when he finally lets someone see him—shirt off, scars visible, voice low and unguarded—it feels like being let into a secret.Alienor believes in grand gestures that don’t shout. Once, he projected a single line of poetry onto the side of an empty brewery: *You are the quiet between two heartbeats.* No name, no explanation. Just light, and longing, and the certainty that someone out there was holding their breath.