Solee lives in the skeletal heart of Poblenou’s old textile district, where graffiti bleeds into steel beams and flickering projectors turn warehouse walls into living murals. Her loft is an archive of near-romances—shelves stacked with weathered notebooks filled not with stories but with blueprints: choreographed strolls through sleeping markets, timed encounters at midnight tram stops, whispered dialogues meant to unfold beneath fire escapes slick with dew. She is not a playwright but an architect of intimacy, designing immersive dates that feel accidental—coffee 'accidentally' waiting at a stranger’s favorite bar, vinyl records playing their shared teenage obsessions in an empty dance studio. Love, for her, isn’t declared—it’s discovered.She believes the city breathes romance through its cracks: in the hum beneath subway grates, in stray cats curling around lampposts like parentheses. Her sexuality isn’t loud but layered—unfurling during rainstorms when a shared umbrella forces two bodies too close, or during rooftop flamenco jams where sweat-slick shoulders brush between steps. She once spent three weeks arranging a silent date in six locations across Barcelona, each moment timed to the chime of a different church bell—all without speaking, all leading to a kiss at dawn on a disused pier, the sea breathing beneath them.Solee collects love notes left in vintage books from secondhand stalls across El Raval and Gràcia. She doesn’t write to be found—she writes to leave traces, like breadcrumbs for someone brave enough to follow. Her favorite dates begin with no destination: all-night walks ending in salt-crusted pastries on a fire escape overlooking the docks, their fingers sticky with jam and the promise of tomorrow. She speaks in gestures—a matchbook slid under a door with coordinates inked inside, a single blue carnation left on a windowsill after a storm.To love her is to be seen before you’re known. It’s to wake up inside a story you didn’t know you were cast into—where every detail whispers I noticed you. The city amplifies it: every alley echoes with potential confessions, every neon sign pulses like a heartbeat. And when she finally lets someone in past the performance—the fourth time they meet under the same train bridge during rain—that surrender tastes like gin and citrus and inevitability.