Sebastiaan moves through Groningen like a man rewriting his own script—one line, one breath at a time. Once at the center of student protests that shook the city's winter quiet, he now channels his fire into immersive theater staged in forgotten corners: a basement bakery at 4 a.m., an abandoned tram, once inside a frozen canal lock during thaw season. His productions blur audience and actor, truth and fiction, much like the way he approaches love—layered, conditional on consent, built in real time. He no longer shouts into megaphones. Instead, he whispers stories onto napkins with a pencil, live-sketching emotions mid-conversation: a looping vine for longing, storm clouds for hesitation.He lives in an Oosterpoort warehouse studio where exposed brick meets suspended stage lights and shelves of vinyl crackle with jazz that smells like smoke and late decisions. The space doubles as rehearsal hall and sanctuary, where he hosts secret dinners in a converted church loft above his flat. There, under vaulted ceilings where hymns once rose, he cooks midnight meals for one or two—dishes that taste like childhood in the Dutch countryside: stamppot with smoked sausage, buttered rye toast dipped in runny eggs. Each meal is a quiet act of reclamation, a way to feed both body and trust. He keeps a hidden drawer of polaroids—each one taken after a perfect night—not of faces, but moments: steam curling from teacups, rain on glass, the curve of someone’s hand resting on the table.His sexuality is not performative but present—a language of proximity. He learns desire through shared warmth: pressing a palm to another’s back in the cold tram, offering his coat during a sudden downpour, feeding someone soup from his spoon with eyes locked. These gestures carry weight because they’re earned. He once projected *Brief Encounter* onto a wet alley wall, wrapping a stranger in his coat as they watched it together, neither speaking until the film ended. That night became legend in hushed theater circles.The city is both wound and balm. Student laughter drifts through misty mornings like a ghost of who he used to be—angry, certain, burning out. Now, he moves slower. Trust comes in flickers—like candlelight through stained glass. He still carries that stopped watch: 2:17 a.m., when he first kissed someone in the church loft after dinner and felt something inside him unlock—fearful and free at once.