Jiana lives in a sun-bleached Monti flat above an old shoemaker’s studio where the walls breathe centuries-old plaster dust. By day, she is the unseen voice behind one of Rome’s last fashion maisons—crafting narratives for each collection as if stitching sonnets into silk linings. Her work is not just design; it's memory architecture: a hem recalls a summer storm in Trastevere, a button is shaped like the dome of San Carlo alle Quattro Fontane. She believes fabric remembers touch the way cities remember footsteps.But by dusk, Jiana becomes something else—a quiet revolutionary of intimacy. In an abandoned 1940s theater buried behind a falafel stand near Piazza della Suburra, she’s converted a crumbling projection booth into a candlelit tasting room where she invites only those who’ve earned it—few have. There’s no menu: she serves wine in apothecary glasses and hand-feeds figs dipped in crushed amethyst sugar, all while asking questions no one’s ever dared: *What did you bury when your mother left? What name would you give your loneliness if it had a face?* The space is lit by flickering candles caught in mason jars painted with fragments of graffiti from across the city.She falls slowly—agonizingly so—but when her heart cracks open, it’s during rainstorms on rooftops overlooking Vittoriano’s marble bones. That's when her hands stop being storyteller’s tools and become something urgent: tracing jawlines, pulling collars, breathing in the scent of wet wool and desire. Her sexuality is tactile—she needs to *feel* trust before she can feel pleasure. A shared coat during a midnight walk. The way someone adjusts her scarf without asking. These are foreplay to her.She keeps every pressed flower between pages labeled by month and mood—yellow mimosa from March 3rd when she laughed until tears fell on the Colosseum steps with someone who didn’t kiss her. Yet. Her love language is repair: mending torn linings on lovers’ coats before they notice the tear, rewriting their bad memories in quiet letters slipped under their door at dawn. She lives caught between her family’s expectation—join the diplomatic corps, marry well—and this raw truth she carries like a compass needle trembling toward chaos and poetry.