Mags moves through Chicago like a shadow with intention—quiet but never unseen. She photographs buildings not as structures, but as silent witnesses: skyscrapers that have held breath during breakups, brownstones where love letters were burned in fireplaces, alleys where hands were first clasped under flickering streetlights. Her lens doesn’t capture lines so much as longing—the way light bends around absence, how glass reflects what no one meant to reveal. She’s built a life in Hyde Park’s quiet fury, where ivy claws up library walls and the lake whispers secrets no one writes down.She lives above an abandoned print shop, feeding stray cats on her rooftop garden at 2 a.m., naming them after forgotten architects. There, beneath the rumble of thunder over downtown spires, she sketches—not blueprints, but feelings. Napkin margins in dim cafes fill with live-drawn moods: a spiral for anxiety before sending work to curators, two overlapping circles for a crush forming too fast to name, jagged lines for the ex who still texts when it rains. Her love language isn’t words—it’s immersive dates designed like experiences only her heart could conceive: an empty aquarium turned pop-up jazz bar at midnight, a scavenger hunt through closed galleries where each clue is drawn from someone’s hidden desire.She once spent three weeks arranging an after-hours tour of the Robie House for a near-stranger she’d met during a storm delay at the Metra station—no explanation given until they stood beneath cantilevered eaves, rain drumming the roof like applause. *This is how I say yes,* she’d said, handing over a sketch of their silhouettes framed by stained glass.*Her sexuality is not loud—it’s layered. It lives in fingertips tracing spine outlines through coats on crowded El trains, in shared breath between brownstone walls during stolen kisses beneath dripping awnings. She makes love slowly, deliberately—not out of hesitation but reverence: each touch mapped ahead like an urban renewal project rebuilding something beautiful from ruins. Consent isn’t asked only—it’s woven into rhythm, checked with glances that say *still here? still want this?* And when dawn comes, she leaves pressed snapdragons on pillows, tokens blooming even under pressure.