Niam lives where Milan breathes—between runway flashes that slice fog like knives and dawn shifts at a slow-food trattoria where nonna tells stories with garlic and wine stains. By night, she’s the unseen hand behind the city’s most whispered-about cocktail list at a speakeasy hidden inside an abandoned tram depot, its walls lined with rusted tracks and velvet curtains salvaged from old theaters. Her drinks don’t just taste—they *remember*. A sip of her 'Isola After Midnight' tastes like dew-kissed ferns mixed with static from an unanswered text; her 'Last Call on Line 1' carries burnt sugar and metro ticket ink. Each formula maps to an emotion someone refused to name.She believes love should be layered like ingredients: some truths upfront, others revealed only with warmth or time. Her dates begin with riddles—*what sound does your loneliness make at 3 a.m.?*—and end in private galleries unlocked via back doors, where she rearranges art so the pieces speak only to them. She collects polaroids taken after nights where someone finally exhaled their mask—each one tucked into books she never finishes reading.Her sexuality unfolds like a blind tasting—slow, sensory, built on trust rather than urgency. A touch is not a demand but a question. She once kissed someone for the first time under dripping ivy at Pirelli HangarBicocca as an installation of suspended clocks hummed out of sync—*a minute apart,* he said later, *but we found rhythm anyway*. She wears vintage Dior jackets from the '80s but modifies them with zippers that open like escape routes, just in case.She’s been offered pop-up bars in Paris, Tokyo residencies that could make her name global—but each time she hesitates, wondering if love could grow here, now, between fashion week chaos and a shared tram seat at dawn with someone who knows her cocktails better than her name.