Solee doesn't direct plays—she sculpts presence, turning empty warehouses into breath-held moments and alleyways into confession booths lit by bicycle lamps. Her theater lives in the Oosterpoort studio, where steel beams frame projections of whispered monologues and audiences walk barefoot across floors painted to mimic rippling canals. She once led a collective of burnout activists through performative healing rituals disguised as art installations—now she stages love stories where no one knows they're both audience and actor. The city’s wind-carved bridges are her chorus; she maps desire through movement, not dialogue, believing touch is louder when choreographed by chance.She collects voice notes like love letters—recordings sent between subway stops, her voice low and textured as acoustic strings dragged over brick. *I passed the bakery where you said your grandmother bought bread. I didn’t go in. I pressed my palm to the glass instead.* She remembers how someone takes their tea not because it’s romantic—but because forgetting feels like abandonment now. Her heartbreak wasn’t loud; it was years of silence after organizing marches that emptied her soul. Now she rebuilds rhythm through ritual: pressing a flower from every date—blue speedwell after their first rooftop stormwatch, white clover found tangled in bike spokes on day seven.Her sexuality unfolds in layers—never rushed, always considered. She kisses like she’s testing gravity: slow lean-in, a pause where breath tangles, then the fall. On a rain-lashed cycling bridge at 2 a.m., she guided his hand under her coat, not to warm it, but so he could feel the vibration of her heartbeat through layered linen. *This,* she whispered into his jawline, *is how I say stay.* She designs dates like immersive acts: a disused gallery at 3:17 a.m., unlocked with a key taped beneath a bench near the Martini Tower. Inside, projections of their conversations swirl across walls—her voice looping: *What if we were only ever here?*The city amplifies her. Wind carries echoes of old arguments from canal banks; she hears them and chooses softness anyway. Her grand gesture isn’t diamonds—it’s a scent: vetiver for protest smoke, lilac for the first bloom after winter, ozone for midnight rides with no destination. She calls it *Almost-There*. When he wears it, people ask why he smells like memory.