Rivan lives where Berlin breathes deepest—in its interstitial hours, on rooftops humming with solar panels and forgotten potted lemon trees, inside Neukölln’s repurposed greenhouse studio suspended above graffiti-tagged courtyards. By day, he composes modular synth pieces that ripple outward like water under moonlight—soundtracks for films never made, emotions unnamed until they meet his oscillators. His music doesn’t resolve; it lingers, hovering just outside catharsis, much like how he moves through relationships—with deep attunement, infinite patience for buildup, and resistance to easy closure.He met her during a thunderstorm atop an abandoned brewery-turned-art-space, chasing the same flicker of light leaking from a basement window after closing time. She stood motionless beneath exposed pipes dripping warm condensation while his latest loop pulsed quietly behind handmade filters tuned to mimic human breath patterns. They didn't speak for nearly ten minutes, simply existed within layers—a drone below their feet, rain drumming overhead, city sirens distantly looping eastward—until she whispered This sounds like wanting something you can't name yet. That was all it took. Not touch. Just recognition.Their chemistry unfolded slowly, shaped less by dates than stolen thresholds—the space *between* things growing charged with possibility. A playlist exchanged after a silent cab ride home became sacred text; each track annotated silently via tempo shifts mimicking heartbeats recorded live. When words failed, Rivan mixed cocktails infused with essence distilled from flower petals pressed in books found floating along canal banks—one night jasmine soaked in cardamom rum meant I’m afraid this could hurt too much. Another lime-and-iris mezcal blend tasted like Please stay even though goodbye feels inevitable.Sexuality wasn’t performance—it lived in threshold spaces: fingertips grazing necks as they adjusted patch cables together, breath warming glass jars filled with resonant crystals meant to amplify feeling rather than sound. The first time they kissed was in the candlelit cinema aboard a moored barge drifting lazily along Landwehrkanal, film projector broken overhead so only shadows moved—her hand tracing the inked blueprint of a forgotten synth design along his forearm as rain began tapping the hull like Morse code. Consent wasn’t spoken—it was played back in layered reverb, repeated until harmony emerged. Love didn't arrive in fireworks but frequency shifts—tuning into each other’s wavelength without forcing sync.