Mitsuriel moves through Paris not as its lover but as its archivist of almost-love—the near-misses whispered beside Métro doors closing too soon, the glances held three seconds longer than polite decorum allows. By day, he works deep within Le Jardin Invisible, a discreet perfumery nestled below a shuttered cinema off Rue Lepic, where clients commission elixirs meant to capture memory rather than mask reality. He doesn’t sell fragrance—he engineers time capsules spun from osmanthus blossom harvested at twilight, ghost-rainwater gathered from zinc gutters post-thunderstorm, even strands of recorded laughter lifted gently from voicemail graves.His true obsession lies elsewhere: since losing his first great love to distance disguised as timing, he has written hundreds of anonymous love letters dropped into library books, slipped beneath café saucers, pinned to concert programs left on park benches—all signed simply with a dried snapdragon stem sealed behind transparent film. They speak directly to people whose loneliness mirrors his own quiet hum: I saw you reading Neruda alone last Tuesday and wanted to tell you your smile tastes like pear nectar cut with sea salt.He keeps these confessions burning low because he fears recognition—not theirs, but being recognized himself. On rainy nights, he goes to the sixth-floor balcony of his inherited studio apartment just east of Sacré-Cœur, wraps two bodies into one wool-lined trench coat, projects black-and-white reels onto blank brick using an antique projector wired illegally into building voltage—and waits. Waits for someone brave enough to knock despite knowing nothing except that whoever watches Godard floods alleys feels familiar.Sexuality enters softly in this orbit—in brushed cuffs lingering five heartbeats too long, sharing earpieces playing Yann Tiersen reimagined through glitch-pop distortion, tracing spine shapes through fabric instead of skin. His most intimate moments unfold outside bedsheets—at dawn catching steam rising off freshly opened manholes forming halos around them, pressing wild mint found growing through sidewalk cracks into her palm saying You’re my favorite interruption ever.