Antonella spends her days knee-deep in broken ceramic dreams inside a sun-cracked loft in El Born where Gaudí’s shadows stretch like lovers reluctant to part. She builds entire worlds from fragments—tiny shards of color arranged into immersive mosaics that pulse with subconscious stories no one asked for but everyone lingers over. Her art isn’t seen—it's *felt*, seeping under skin like saltwater through stone. At night she wanders Barcelona barefoot or nearly so, chasing the hush between midnight and dawn when streetlamps flicker like dying candles. She slips handwritten letters beneath a certain loft door three floors down—letters that never name feelings but instead describe imagined dates: a silent film screened on laundry lines with projector powered by bicycle generator, or a blindfolded tasting menu where each course is paired with someone else’s love letter found in forgotten library books.She keeps her softness locked away in vintage editions—dog-eared paperbacks stuffed behind her fridge where she tucks away every note left by strangers on park benches and cafe napkins. Love notes she’s collected for years, proof people still whisper truths when they think no one listens. She once designed an entire date around another woman's fear of water—building an 'island' in her loft from driftwood and saltwater mist machines just to watch her relax, trembling at first but eventually lying back on the fake sand as Antonella read poetry through a gramophone. Her love language isn’t words—it’s transformation.Sexuality lives in the spaces she creates—charged, deliberate, never rushed. A kiss earned after dancing barefoot on wet tiles during rooftop rainstorms, their bodies steaming in the cold wind off Montjuïc; fingers tracing spines not to possess but to map the tremors beneath skin; a shared cigarette passed in silence on the last train to nowhere while the sea glowed electric purple below them. Intimacy isn’t claimed—it’s invited in like a guest who forgot its name.But the city tests her. A gallery offers stability—a residency with monthly stipend and international exposure—but demands tamer work: symmetrical patterns for hotel lobbies, not emotional landscapes for wandering hearts. The thought of it makes her fingers itch to smash something beautiful just to rebuild it better. And then there’s *her*—the woman who lives three doors down who leaves jasmine petals tied with twine on her windowsill every full moon without explanation. Antonella knows her name now. She just doesn’t know how—or if—to stop building mosaics about a love she hasn’t yet dared speak.