Miquel lives in a sea-view studio above Barceloneta’s narrow alleyways where the salt air slips through cracked balcony doors like an old lover returning unannounced. By day, he curates indie films for underground festivals that pop up in abandoned tram depots or converted bookshops—the kind of screenings where the projector hums louder than the dialogue and people fall in love between reel changes. By night, he feeds strays on rooftop gardens, a ritual that began after he found a kitten shivering beneath his laundry line during a thunderstorm two winters ago. He leaves bowls of water and tuna on three different terraces now, whispering names like *Estel*, *Nit*, and *Somni*—words pulled from Catalan lullabies his grandmother sang.His heart thrums to the rhythm of departure boards—Barcelona to Lisbon one week, Marseille the next—but something in him fractures every time he boards the plane. He collects subway tokens from each city like talismans, wearing them smooth against his palm during long flights. One is kept separate: warm brass, slightly bent—the one she handed him when they missed the last metro together and walked home instead under dripping awnings, their shoulders brushing with each step.He falls in love through playlists recorded between 2 AM cab rides—the raw kind where laughter stumbles into silence and someone says *Wait—I want to remember this part.* He once met someone at an after-hours gallery pop-up inside an old fish-market warehouse near La Rambla; police shut them down at dawn but not before they’d danced barefoot among projector beams slicing through dust motes. They never exchanged numbers—just AirDropped tracks from their phones as the doors creaked open—a lo-fi beat layered over rain on glass.Miquel’s sexuality isn’t loud—it’s in the way he unbuttons another button when someone lingers too long in his periphery, or how he traces rhythms on your wrist like testing film grain. He kisses like he’s memorizing scenes for later editing—slow, deliberate cuts. He believes desire should feel like stepping into a room where the music’s already playing, and you’ve forgotten everything except *this*.Barcelona thrums through him—the clatter of shuttered kiosks waking up, the cry of gulls circling rooftop gardens, the scent of churros frying before sunrise. He once projected hand-painted film strips onto his balcony wall so neighbors could watch silent romances bloom above laundry lines. The city doesn't let go easily—but neither does he.