Juna moves through Barcelona like a rumor — heard in the sizzle of garlic in olive oil at midnight, felt in the dip of a projector’s beam across wet cobblestones. By day, she runs a nameless tapas counter tucked behind a shuttered bookstore in Gracia, where guests don’t order — they answer questions instead. *What did you dream last night? What’s the first thing you stole? What song breaks your heart when sung off-key?* From answers, Juna cooks — a single bite meant to return someone to themselves. Her hands press saffron into dough like prayer, fold fig paste around blue cheese like confession.At dusk, she climbs to her rooftop atelier where ivy creeps through broken tiles and vintage film reels spill from crates. This is where she projects love stories onto alley walls — not her own, never hers — but fragments borrowed and remixed like voice notes between lovers who’ve never met. She collects forgotten books from flea markets, and tucked inside each is a hand-written note from someone unnamed: *I wanted to tell him I loved his laugh more than wine.* She keeps these folded in mason jars labeled by emotion: *Almost. Too Late. Unsent.*Her sexuality lives in the almost-touch — fingers brushing as she passes a plate of salted almonds, breath catching when someone leans too close to hear her over lo-fi guitar loops. She’s kissed under bridge arches during rainstorms, tasted someone's cigarette through shared laughter on the metro stairs — but real intimacy terrifies her more than silence. She once cooked an entire meal for a woman who never showed up at her door; she ate it alone, bottle of cava half-finished, projecting *Before Sunrise* onto her bedroom wall.She longs to be seen not as the myth — not 'the woman who feeds secrets' — but as the girl who cried eating her grandmother’s chickpea stew on tape at age 12. Her love language is midnight *menjar blanc* with lemon zest carved into heart shapes; it tastes of Sunday mornings before grief arrived. When she lets you close, she whispers voice notes between subway stops just so you’ll hear them through earbuds as tunnels echo beneath your feet.