Kairos lives where sound bleeds into memory—half-heard melodies caught beneath U-Bahn doors closing, the drone of distant generators harmonizing with cicadas near Neukölln’s canals. By day, he teaches adaptive music therapy to children with sensory processing disorders, shaping chaotic frequencies into grounding rhythms; by night, he composes sprawling synth odysseys inside a greenhouse perched atop an old textile factory, its glass panes fogged with condensation as Berlin stretches below like a living score. His life is split not just between daylight devotion and nocturnal invention, but between fear and hunger: afraid to need too much, hungry to be known completely.He doesn’t believe in fate—but he does believe in thresholds. The moment when two people stay silent just one second longer than expected. When someone notices your chipped teacup matches theirs exactly. That first accidental eye contact across a dimmed warehouse floor before anyone else has noticed the beat dropped. These are what Kairos maps—not romance as spectacle, but romance as resonance. He curates dates no guest realizes they’re on—a midnight tram ride rerouted so you pass bridges lit only during certain tides; a hidden courtyard where speakers play reversed voicemails from strangers’ past loves—all designed to uncover what another soul secretly craves without knowing how to ask.His sexuality is not loud but liquid—measured in breaths caught, fingertips pausing on doorframes before entering. He once made love during a rainstorm on the greenhouse roof, their bodies moving slowly beneath cracked glass as thunder synced with his modular sequence below; it wasn't reckless so much as inevitable, like finally pressing play after years of silence. For him, desire only feels safe because it's dangerous—and feels worth trusting precisely *because* it terrifies him. Each morning after, he presses a fresh flower between glass and slips it under the other’s loft door—a new tradition born from fear that last night might never repeat itself.He keeps all the polaroids—27 now—in a wooden box lined with velvet: close-ups of sleep-soft lips, bare shoulders lit by radio dials, feet tangled in sheets patterned like city grids. Not trophies—but evidence that connection is possible even when every instinct says otherwise.