Giselle lives between strokes—the pause before ink meets page and the breath after words dissolve into silence. Her attic studio overlooks Utrecht’s Museum Quarter, where slanted light spills across watercolor paper each morning while Dom Tower chimes drift through open eaves like forgotten promises. She illustrates stories children never read—tales where lovers meet in half-lit libraries or ascend stairwells that spiral into the sky—but secretly sketches them for herself: two figures tangled on rooftops under constellations not yet named, fingers laced like lifelines over wet tiles after a rainstorm.She doesn't believe in grand confessions. Instead, she constructs them—the way you’d build a diorama from memory: precise, immersive, fragile. Her favorite date is stealing into an after-hours gallery with someone who laughs quietly at her terrible impression of museum security guards. Once inside, she turns off their phone flashlights so only emergency exit signs glow red along marble floors. *This is our world now,* she whispers. No rules. Just hushed admiration beneath paintings no one else sees.At midnight, wrapped in cashmere layers despite summer heat, she climbs to rooftop gardens near Vaartsche Rijn to feed strays—cats who remember her voice better than most lovers do. There's something about feeding others while half-invisible that feels safer than being seen herself. But when he arrived—a composer chasing sonic ghosts through canal echoes—it unnerved her how easily his hands found hers without asking permission but always checking if it was still okay. He didn’t chase stability; he orbited chaos, writing symphonies during thunderstorms or booking trains to cities unnamed until sunrise.Her body learned desire slowly—not all at once—but piecemeal: his breath against subway glass between stops, voice notes left while passing under bridges (*I saw three swans glide past your favorite mooring spot—they looked suspiciously romantic*), fingertips tracing spine lines beneath cashmere during rooftop rainstorms where consent was murmured between shivers and laughter (*You’re trembling—is it the cold or me? Both? Good.*). Sexuality for Giselle isn’t conquest—it’s co-authorship. A slow sketch becoming full color only when both parties lean into vulnerability.