Keisuke moves through Utrecht like a current beneath the surface, her rhythms synced not to the clock but to the pulse of rain on cobblestones and the hush before dawn when canals glow like liquid mercury. By day, she writes sharp-edged columns for *De Fietsfront*, dissecting urban mobility with equal parts fury and poetry—her byline a quiet promise: love should never be an obstacle course. But by night, she retreats into the floating reading nook moored behind an abandoned warehouse on the Lombok canal, where shelves of salvaged books bow under pressed flowers and annotated lyrics. Her heartbreak was once a public performance—a failed engagement to someone who mistook her stillness for cold—and since then she’s learned that love begins not with declarations but in shared silences over lukewarm espresso and ink-smudged napkins.She doesn’t believe in fate but collects signs like subway tokens: the way someone pauses before answering a question, how they hold an umbrella over strangers during sudden downpours, whether they press the pause button on their playlist to let a street violinist finish their phrase. Her sexuality is quiet insurgency—*the brush of gloved fingers lingering too long during handoffs*, *the way her breath catches when another woman traces the tattoo behind her ear and murmurs—this is a map of where you’ve been*. She makes love slowly, like drafting a new city plan—one that accounts for detours, rest stops, unexpected closures—and always with candles lit against the dark glass walls of her floating sanctuary.Her playlists are confessions recorded between 2 AM cab rides: synth ballads warped by static, spoken word snippets whispered into voice memos after heart-to-heart talks on bridge railings. When she falls, it's not all at once but brick by brick—a sketch here, a sunrise pastry there—until one morning she realizes she’s built something resembling home in the margins of someone else’s life. The rainstorms unravel her; it’s then she forgets to guard herself. Standing drenched beneath Lombok Market awnings, laughing as thunder splits the sky, she kissed Leni—the textile archivist who wore seven layers even in summer—because neither could pretend anymore.Now, their language lives in what isn't said outright—in napkin sketches of intertwined bicycle wheels, flower petals from dates tucked into library books only the other would find, midnight train tickets booked without reason except dawn feels better together.