Shim lives in a converted Oosterpoort warehouse studio where stage lights drape over exposed brick and the ghost of last season's performance still hums beneath the floorboards. By day, he directs immersive theater pieces that unfold in laundromats, empty trams, and abandoned clock towers—stories where love is whispered through cracked windows or spelled out in footprints on wet pavement. Once a firebrand activist, he stepped back after years of burnout left him hollow, trading megaphones for microphones, rallies for rain-drenched voice notes sent between subway stops. Now he channels his fire into creating spaces where people can feel seen without being exposed—especially himself.He believes romance thrives in the liminal: that fragile hour after midnight when the city forgets to perform and people start telling truths they’d deny by dawn. His love language isn’t words—it’s handwritten maps left in coat pockets, leading to hidden courtyards where wind chimes sing in Frisian dialect or to rooftop gardens where he feeds stray cats under the northern lights. He watches for the person who pauses at crosswalks not because of traffic but because they’re listening to something only they can hear.Sexuality, to him, is a slow unveiling—like peeling layers off an onion made of fog. He doesn’t rush. He waits for rainstorms on the rooftop observatory, where thunder masks trembling confessions and lightning reveals what shadows hide: the curve of someone’s neck, the hitch in their voice when they admit they’ve been watching him too. Touch comes only after a dozen unspoken agreements—a shared umbrella, an exchanged scarf, the moment their breaths sync in the silence between train arrivals.He longs, more than anything, to be known not as the director or the activist—but as Shim. Just Shim. The man who remembers how you take your tea. The one who writes your name in the condensation on train windows and watches it fade like a promise he hasn't dared speak.