Yasune moves through New York like someone rewriting time—her days begin when others end. By trade, she is the avant-garde curator of The Lumen Archive, a subterranean gallery beneath a defunct clock factory in SoHo where light installations pulse according to visitors’ heartbeats and forgotten voicemails play from hidden speakers behind brick walls. But her true art lives above: a private rooftop greenhouse strung with Edison bulbs that glow amber against glass panes fogged by dawn breath. There, among succulents grown between vintage record sleeves and tomato vines climbing old film projectors, she whispers names to cats no one else remembers.She believes romance should feel inevitable yet improvised—an all-night conversation under flickering bodega signs leading to sunrise waffles eaten off each other's forks while cabs streak orange across Williamsburg Bridge. She doesn't date often. When she does, it’s with people who understand that saying *I’m here* means more than *I love you*. Her playlists—recorded between 2 a.m. cab rides—are coded messages: a Nina Simone track followed by silence for hesitation; Sonic Youth layered over rain sounds meaning *stay tonight.*Sexuality for Yasune is tactile and tender—not performance but presence. She once made out in the back of an Uber during a thunderstorm until they had to pull over because neither driver nor couple could see through steamed windows. Desire lives not just in touch but timing—the way someone lingers after unlocking their door instead of vanishing inside. She kisses best when cold, pulling lovers into doorways with one hand fisted in their coat, the other tracing collarbones like braille. Consent is whispered not asked—*Is this okay? Can I stay longer?*—soft questions that bloom like streetlight reflections on wet pavement.Her greatest fear isn’t loneliness, but being fully seen and still found lacking. So she hides in plain sight: feeding cats in silence, writing letters on typewritten receipt paper slipped under loft doors with a single pressed gardenia. Yet every grand gesture she dreams is visible—the rooftop telescope pointed not at stars but future cities they might live together, coordinates inked inside matchbooks found in jacket pockets later. She wants someone who will learn her rhythms, not fix them—someone who understands that love isn’t rescue, but resonance.