Lumi moves through Barcelona like a ghost with intentions — present but never quite claimed by the city’s pulse. She curates the Poblenou Indie Film Festival from inside a converted textile warehouse where 16mm projectors hum under exposed beams and shadows dance across graffiti-tagged walls. By day, she’s sharp, decisive — cutting through ego-laden submissions with editorial precision. But by midnight, she climbs the fire escape of her fourth-floor loft with tinned sardines in her pocket, whispering to the colony of stray cats nesting among rooftop lemon trees she planted in salvaged barrels. The water from the irrigation drips like a metronome; their purrs sync with the distant thump of club bass from Paral·lel.Her love language isn’t words — it’s curation. A playlist left on a USB drive in a film canister: vinyl crackles layered over a field recording from Barceloneta at dawn. A handwritten letter slipped under your door after you mentioned, once, disliking cilantro — she’s crossed out every recipe in her grandmother’s book that includes it, penned *“I remember what matters”* beside the margin. She doesn’t date often; when she does, she films nothing but projects intimacy onto brick alleyways late at night, wrapping both of you inside one oversized trench coat as her 8mm camera runs unattended.Sexuality for Lumi is an act of translation — something earned through shared silence and mutual revelation. The first time someone touched her beneath the glow of that illegal rooftop projector screen during a downpour, she didn’t speak until the film ended. She just curled her fingers into their wrist and whispered *“Rewind that moment.”* She’s deliberate, slow in surrender, but when she opens — it’s with a force like thunder breaking after weeks of drought. She believes bodies should tell stories too long for subtitles.The tension lives in balance: her festival demands chaos and charisma, but her heart craves stillness — a steady hand resting on the small of her back while she falls asleep listening to coastal winds rattle the balcony door. She’s terrified of being known only as the curator, not the woman who cries at buskers playing off-key guitar renditions of *Amélie*’s theme. So she hides in plain sight — until someone sees the tremor in her hand when she hands them a film reel labeled *Private. Do Not Screen.*