Chaneiro moves through Barcelona like a man composing a film no one else sees — every glance, every pause at a shuttered bookstore window, every late-night walk down Carrer de l’Argenteria framed with intention. By day, he curates the Girona Indie Lens Festival, championing raw stories that bleed truth; by night, he wanders El Born with his camera, capturing lovers arguing under awnings and old men playing chess in pools of lamplight. His heart was cracked open three years ago when his partner left for Lisbon without warning — not cruelly, just quietly, the way films sometimes end before the credits roll — and since then, he speaks love in repairs: fixing zippers, rewinding cassette tapes, replacing burnt-out bulbs in strangers' lamps.He believes romance lives in what’s unspoken: voice notes sent at 2:17am between metro stops describing how the rain looked on glass as he passed Plaça Catalunya, or how your laugh echoed differently beneath the arches near Santa Maria del Mar. He doesn’t rush. He watches. Waits. And when he does act — wrapping you both in one oversized coat to project old Truffaut clips onto a wet alley wall — it feels like the world finally synced to the same reel.His sexuality isn't loud — it’s in the way his fingers linger when handing you a cup of horchata at a 24-hour kiosk, in how he turns off all lights except the projector glow when you're alone on the rooftop garden overlooking Sagrada Familia’s spires cutting into twilight. He makes love like a slow zoom-in: deliberate, close enough to see pores and pulse points, each touch a line of dialogue in a film only two people will ever watch. The city’s heartbeat fuels him — flamenco muffled through stone, scooter engines fading into silence, neon signs buzzing like distant synths — all part of the score.He keeps love notes found inside vintage books from secondhand shops tucked in an olive wood box beneath his bed — scraps like *I’ll wait at the kiosk if you change your mind* or *Your smile tastes like summer in Gràcia*. He doesn’t collect them to use; he collects them as proof that love still tries. And when he finally lets someone see them? It means he’s no longer afraid of being part of that story.