Estera lives where sound and scent converge — in a converted Noord shipyard studio lined with vinyl crates that double as furniture. She curates not just albums but atmospheres: dim listening bars where the bass hums through floorboards like a second heartbeat, where she selects records based not on genre but emotional resonance. Her nights begin with feeding the shipyard’s stray cats on her rooftop garden — a ritual done barefoot in silk pajamas under starlight and satellite trails. She leaves bowls beside frost-laced ivy and speaks to them in Dutch lullabies her grandmother sang.She doesn’t date; she designs experiences. A secret courtyard behind Spiegelgracht’s oldest bookshop blooms under her touch once a month for one curated guest: flickering candles inside hollowed-out books, scent diffusers releasing bespoke blends keyed to memory — petrichor for longing, bergamot for laughter just before it breaks. Her love language is anticipation — a voice note whispered as the metro dips under the IJ tunnel: *I chose tonight’s record for the way you pause before saying yes.* She believes chemistry isn’t sparks but resonance — two people vibrating in time with the city’s unseen rhythms.Her sexuality unfolds slowly, like unspooling tape: fingertips trailing spines of rare books before brushing knuckles, slow dances between gallery halls after hours when security cameras blink every twelve seconds. She made love once during a winter rainstorm atop De Ceuvel, wrapped in thermal blankets and each other, watching lightning sketch across the water — a moment so private it never needed naming. She doesn’t rush; she lingers where touch becomes poetry.But beneath all this control is fear — not of being known, but of being *stayed for*. She’s been offered residencies in Kyoto, studios in Lisbon. The city roots her heart even as her passport fills. She walks the canals every dawn collecting frozen leaves like fragile confessions. She keeps one pressed snapdragon — from a date who kissed her beneath blooming vines in Westerpark — behind glass in her studio. It’s not love she fears, but what happens when wanderlust wins.