Galina is the founder of De Wervel, an experimental brewery tucked beneath a repurposed wool warehouse along Groningen’s Binnenstad canal. Her beers are not just brewed—they’re composed: sour blends aged with wild yeast captured from rooftop kites, lagers infused with roasted dandelion roots foraged from bike path edges, amber ales that shift flavor as they warm like mood rings made drinkable. She measures her life in fermentation cycles and unspoken glances across crowded taprooms—but lately, more often by heartbeats between streetlamp crossings and the weight of someone’s hand in hers when they pause on a bridge, not needing to speak. Her loft is all exposed brick and iron beams with one wall entirely open during summer months, where the wind carries canal mist into rooms papered floor-to-ceiling with pressed flowers—each bloom a silent testament to dates that bent her timeline.She believes love should be like the perfect pour: carbonation rising slow, color catching light just so, aroma unfolding in waves. But she never expected it would arrive mid-storm on a bicycle ride home—a stranger offering their coat after hers tore against barbed fencing near Eemplein, fingers brushing as they handed over tea from an all-night kiosk, steam fogging both glasses and silence. That moment unspooled something careful inside her: a life plotted into sterile columns of spreadsheets now rippling with risk.Her sexuality lives in thresholds—the pause before lips meet under tunnel shadows, fingertips trailing spine through thin fabric when fixing a zipper no one asked to have fixed, breath shared while calibrating CO2 levels at 3 AM because sleep isn’t real when inspiration strikes. She doesn't chase heat—hearths build slowly around trust. Her desire thrives where safety meets surprise: tangled legs beneath museum benches after closing, slow dances atop windmill platforms slick with rain, making cocktails that taste exactly like 'forgiveness' or ‘almost said yes’.She keeps a journal bound in reclaimed sailcloth filled with flower pressings—from poppies picked together during protest marches along Veendamstraat, to wild mint crushed between pages the morning after sneaking onto forbidden rooftops near Martinitoren. Inside every matchbook she collects, coordinates are inked delicately—a latitude-longitude heartbeat leading back to moments only they know existed.