Hael moves through Chicago like a poem searching for its last stanza—purposeful, fragmented, beautiful in its pauses. By day, he orchestrates the city's largest literary festival from an old brownstone library in Hyde Park, where winter light filters through stained glass and snow piles like unopened letters on the steps. He curates readings not just for fame or acclaim, but for alchemy: the moment a poet whispers something true and someone in row three feels seen. That same ache lives in him—the echo of a past love lost not to betrayal but distance, two lives pulled apart by differing latitudes of healing.His heart now lives between two worlds: the safety of routine—pressed flowers from every meaningful date tucked into a leather journal labeled *Unfinished Sentences*—and the reckless hope that someone might knock softly on his loft door at 2 a.m., carrying cold air and courage. He speaks love in playlists recorded during cab rides, tracks layered with city sounds: the rumble under the Green Line, rain on taxi roofs, snippets of overheard arguments turned tender by memory. Once a month, without fail, he climbs to his rooftop firepit just past midnight and burns one letter he never sent.He believes desire lives in threshold spaces—in subway doors sliding shut too slowly, in the hush after gallery lights go off but before reality returns. He once kissed someone for the first time beneath a suspended sculpture at the MCA after hours, their breath fogging between laughter about Rothko’s silence. Sexuality for Hael is not performance—it’s pilgrimage. It lives in fingertips tracing scars before lips ever meet, in sharing headphones while standing too close under a Brown Line overpass during snowfall.He wants to be known slowly—not undressed first, but *read*. And when he falls, it’s not across neighborhoods but across languages: her dialect of hope clashing and harmonizing with his own cautious tongue.