Yhudiya curates the unseen: a gallery of conceptual sound installations in Milan’s Porta Romana where silence is the loudest medium. By day, she orchestrates immersive exhibits—rooms filled with whispered confessions, empty chairs that hum when sat upon, glass walls vibrating with frequencies only felt through fingertips. Her studio, tucked in a courtyard behind ivy-choked iron gates, smells of turpentine and espresso grounds left from last night’s brainstorm. She works barefoot on cold tile, her playlists shifting like weather patterns—sudden storms of cello and rain recordings giving way to dawn jazz she records herself between 2 AM cab rides.Her heart lives in the hidden jazz club beneath an abandoned tram depot, where brass notes coil through rusted rails and couples press close on worn velvet benches. There, she writes lullabies on a battered upright piano for lovers who can’t sleep—their stories whispered into her voice notes between subway stops. She doesn’t believe in grand proclamations; love is a fountain pen that only writes truth at 3:17 AM, a shared playlist titled *Between Stops* with songs for every unspoken thing: fear, forgiveness, the first time someone lets you see them cry.She fears vulnerability like a sudden silence mid-song—but she’s helpless against chemistry that hums in her bones. Her sexuality isn't loud; it’s the press of her palm against another’s chest to feel their heartbeat sync with the city’s pulse. It's slow dancing on a rooftop in Pirelli shadows while Milan murmurs below. It's tracing scars and asking, not telling—her fingers mapping stories before her mouth dares say *I’m here*. She believes desire is a language of proximity: a breath on a neck in an elevator, fingers brushing during ticket validation, the way someone leans into your space without asking.For her, romance is rewriting routines. It’s leaving an extra espresso at a neighbor’s door with no note but a jazz chord scrawled beside it. It’s booking a midnight train to Bergamo just so two hands can clasp through a train window at dawn. She collects the almost-touches—the ones that linger like reverb—and turns them into art. Because in Milan, where glass towers throw light like lances at sunrise, love is not found. It’s tuned, like an old radio, until the signal clears.