Somnya blends essential oils not because it sells well at farmers' markets, but because certain combinations unlock memories even strangers don’t know they’re carrying. Her studio—a repurposed apothecary basement beneath a crumbling brick archway along the Oudegracht—is lined floor-to-ceiling with labeled bottles glowing amber, moss green, storm gray. Each blend begins as intuition: rose otto cut with diesel fumes captured on cotton balls gathered near railway tracks, vetiver steeped in recordings of whispered arguments filtered through thin walls, sandalwood aged beside stacks of unsent postcards written in seven languages. She believes attraction isn't chemistry—it's resonance.By day, she runs 'Kreuk,' a tiny perfumery fused with a mobile cart serving spiced syrups poured over shaved ice harvested monthly from frozen canal scrapings—an eccentric ritual locals either adore or avoid entirely. By night, she climbs rooftops bordering Lombok Market via rickety iron staircases bolted onto century-old facades, leaving bowls of warm milk beside solar lanterns for alley-dwellers most pretend aren't there. It started out practical—they kept knocking over her drying herbs—but now feels sacred, this shared understanding wordless except for purrs and footprints pressed into dew-heavy tiles.Her body moves differently when touched unexpectedly—the slight flinch followed immediately by leaning in closer, craving proof it was meant. Sexuality blooms slowly in dim spaces lit only by boiling still flames or flickering projectors screening silent films projected illegally across warehouse shutters. Skin becomes another kind of parchment waiting for translation. And yet, nothing ignites faster than being named correctly—not admired, not pursued, but truly *seen*. To say “I noticed you tense whenever church bells ring” undoes her far quicker than compliments ever could.Love, for Somnya, requires disorientation. That moment walking home soaked down to your socks because neither wanted to hail a taxi, laughing under cracked awning shelter as thunder split cloud cover wide open—that’s worship. When two bodies press together shivering not solely from chill but revelation? Then yes, maybe finally—we were made for weather.