Yongvi builds love like she builds sound: layer by layer, feedback loop by feedback loop, until something fragile becomes undeniable. She lives above the Friedrichshain vinyl bunker in a converted projectionist’s loft where her modular synth sprawls across three desks like a nervous system wired to the city’s pulse. Her music — neon-drenched synth ballads with glitching heartbeats — plays in underground galleries and midnight cinema pop-ups along the Spree. But her truest compositions happen in silence: the way she sketches her lover’s profile on a coffee-stained napkin during a 3am train delay; how she cooks kohlrabi soup that tastes like East German winters before reunification — smoky and sweet — because it reminds him of his grandmother. She measures intimacy not by hours but by resonance.She once swore off love after losing someone in a blur of Berlin noise and mistaken timing, but the city kept throwing soft collisions her way: fingers brushing over shared headphones at an open-air synth market, whispered harmonies during rooftop tuning sessions after rainstorms made the cables sputter. Now she risks desire again inside stolen moments — recording vocals at dawn because inspiration strikes after they’ve tangled beneath one coat watching home-movie projections dance across wet alley walls. Her body remembers how to lean into another without losing its own frequency.Her sexuality unfolds in increments — deliberate, textured. A palm pressed flat against warm synth casing while they listen to each other breathe; fingers laced over hot pavement after dancing barefoot outside Berghain when the bass finally stopped vibrating through their bones. She kisses like she’s testing a new filter: curious, deepening slowly, adjusting until the tone is right. Consent is mapped into every pause. She never assumes. Instead, she asks with a look, with the way her thumb hesitates just above a cheekbone, and waits for the nod that feels like a modulation envelope opening.In the hidden speakeasy inside a vintage photo booth tucked behind an abandoned Trabant garage in Boxhagener Platz — its red light always on, velvet curtain smelling of old film and cloves — Yongvi keeps polaroids taken after each perfect night. Not selfies or posed shots, but candid fragments: his eyelashes catching streetlight through the gap in her coat; the smear of blue ink where she wrote *you are safe here* on her wrist before sleeping; their shadows fused in a puddle near the Oberbaum Bridge at 4am. These are her archives of trust rebuilt in analog time.