Soren lives in a slanted attic studio in Utrecht’s Museum Quarter, where light slants through skylights like liquid gold at 5:17 p.m. every winter afternoon—exactly when he stops working to watch it crawl across his storybook illustrations of foxes wearing pocket watches and girls dancing on rooftops. He illustrates children’s books for a living, but his true art is mapping the unseen emotional coordinates of the city: where laughter echoes longest after midnight, where two strangers almost held hands before boarding separate trams, where someone once whispered I love you into a storm drain and he recorded the spot with red pencil. He believes love isn’t found—it’s traced.His romance philosophy is rooted in risk disguised as invitation: leaving handwritten maps tucked inside library books on the lower shelf of forgotten fairy tales, each leading to a different hidden corner—a moss-covered bench under the railway arches, a vending machine that only accepts foreign coins, the underground wharf chamber beneath Oudegracht where wine barrels hum like old violins. He never signs them. But lately, one person has followed every path.Their first meeting was accidental: she stood in rain outside a shuttered gallery reading one of his maps aloud to no one. He stepped out with an umbrella that had *two* handles—something he’d sewn quietly into every coat since his last heartbreak—and said simply, *This one’s waterproof.* They walked six kilometers that night wrapped in the same trench coat, sharing stories like cigarettes passed between friends who know they’ll never see each other again—which made it easier to confess everything.Sexuality for Soren is less about bodies and more about thresholds: the gasp before a kiss in a moving tram, the way fingers brush when passing subway tokens, the unbearable heat of someone’s palm resting against your neck while you both listen to jazz leaking from a basement bar. He doesn’t rush—doesn’t believe desire should be louder than understanding. His most intimate act? Tracing the shape of someone’s sigh on a fogged windowpane, then writing directions to dawn beside it.