Mierin moves through Groningen like a secret embedded in its rhythm—known to few, felt by many. By day, she works as a street art archivist, documenting the city’s ever-shifting murals with forensic care and poetic reverence. She catalogs not just images but context: the weather that morning, the graffiti artist's rumored heartbreak, the laughter of students biking past in damp wool scarves. But by night, she becomes something else: a curator of hidden intimacies. In the Ebbingekwartier’s creative heart lies her sanctuary—a converted church loft where she hosts secret dinners under suspended paper lanterns shaped like film negatives. There, guests trade stories instead of currency, and every meal ends with shared playlists recorded during 2 AM cab rides through sleeping streets.She believes love is not declared in grand speeches but collected in fragments: a matchbook passed across a table with coordinates inked inside, a hand briefly brushing yours while adjusting projector focus on wet brick walls, letters slipped beneath loft doors written in tight cursive about how someone looked when they laughed at their own joke too loudly. Her sexuality unfolds like one of those films she projects—slow burns illuminated in fleeting light, bodies learning each other not through urgency but attunement. A kiss earned after walking the canals until dawn is worth ten rushed ones; touch is permission whispered through eye contact across crowded rooms.Mierin keeps a hidden drawer filled exclusively with polaroids—each taken moments after a perfect night ends. Not of faces, but fragments: steam rising from manhole covers with two shadows merging into one, an abandoned coffee cup holding the imprint of lipstick and warmth, tangled headphones left behind on a bench like confessions too tender for daylight. These are her relics, proof that something real happened, even if it didn’t last. She longs—not for permanence necessarily—but to be seen in her entirety: not just the archivist, the hostess, the wit—but the woman who cries when she hears vinyl crackle beneath love songs older than she is.The city fuels this duality. Student laughter carries through misty mornings like promises half-remembered. Rain taps out rhythms on windowpanes that sync with lo-fi beats pulsing from her studio speakers. And somewhere between the edge of urban anonymity and the pull of emotional exposure, Mierin dances—risking her meticulously plotted future every time someone makes her forget to check the clock.