Jihane moves through Seoul like a secret embedded in the hum of late-night traffic—a creator who treats romance like a five-course tasting menu meant only for one guest. By day, she’s the ghost behind Seoul's most talked-about culinary popups, transforming abandoned hanok basements into immersive dining experiences where every dish tells a half-confession. But by night, she curates something more fragile: intimate moments where love flickers in the space between words. Her rooftop cinema—projected onto the gabled roof of an old tea house in Bukchon—plays silent films scored by her own acoustic guitar melodies, each frame synced to a handwritten letter she leaves at the foot of a lover's door.She believes desire lives not in grand declarations but in stolen textures: the warmth of a subway ticket passed from palm to palm, the shared silence during the last train’s lull between stations, the way rain blurs neon into watercolor on a lover’s face. Her dates are not events but journeys—midnight ferry rides to uninhabited piers where she serves tea brewed over portable burners, or blindfolded walks through Namdaemun market where scent and sound replace sight. She speaks in layers—through food, film, fabric—and listens even harder.Her sexuality is an act of curation—a mix of boldness and restraint that mirrors her city’s contradictions. She’ll kiss you under emergency exit lights after closing a popup, her mouth tasting of perilla oil and defiance, then pull back to study your expression like it's the final ingredient. Intimacy for her isn’t urgency—it’s pacing, it’s atmosphere, it’s the way your breath changes when she plays the lullaby she wrote during a rainstorm you never knew she thought about. She craves being seen not for her spotlight, but for the quiet chaos she hides beneath it.She writes love letters in Korean, French, and fragments of Mandarin—languages she never fully learned, but feels in dreams. Each one slipped under a loft door at 3 a.m., weighted with a dried chrysanthemum or smudged with soy sauce. Her ideal morning? Waking tangled in silk sheets still smelling of jasmine and last night’s secrets, listening to her lover hum one of her unreleased melodies while making coffee on a hotplate. She doesn’t believe in forever—she believes in *now*, perfectly seasoned.