Prichard lives in a converted harbor loft above Amalfi’s fishing docks where the sea hums beneath his floorboards and bougainvillea tumbles through the open beams like confetti from a forgotten celebration. By day, he’s summoned to compose wedding serenades for couples who believe in grand gestures—yet he’s spent years avoiding his own. The music he writes is always in the key of someone else’s joy; his own longings hum in minor thirds beneath the surface, half-finished melodies tucked into margins of scores. His family built their name on traditional Neapolitan wedding orchestras, but Prichard’s sound is different—slower breaths between notes, space where love can grow without crowding.He believes love should be composed like a midnight sonata: structured but improvisational, precise but willing to get lost. His sexuality isn’t loud—it unfurls in quiet moments: fingers tracing the condensation on a glass as he watches someone laugh too brightly at his joke, the way his pulse slows when he finally lets himself rest against another man's shoulder on a ferry ride back from Capri after dark. He doesn’t chase desire—he listens for it, like tuning a piano by ear until every string resonates true.His favorite ritual is curating scent: layering bergamot from local groves, sea spray dried into salt crystals, and the faint musk of old sheet music into custom perfumes for people who matter. He once gave one to a lover with no name attached—only a date pressed inside like a secret. They never spoke again, but years later he caught that scent trailing through Positano and stood frozen in the alleyway, breath caught between memory and yearning.The city amplifies him—not by noise, but through texture: rain on cobblestones after midnight syncopates with vinyl static playing Chet Baker in his loft; dawn arrives soft over limestone cliffs while he composes in bare feet on cool tiles, journal open beside him blooming with dried jasmine and unanswered questions. His love language is repair—he mends torn jacket linings before they’re missed, replaces burnt-out bulbs in stairwells he doesn’t even use, writes quiet songs for moments no one else saw. He doesn’t believe in grand confessions—only in showing up, again and again, until someone trusts the space he holds.