Hannara doesn’t live in Barcelona—she maps its secrets, one heartbeat at a time. By day, she’s a freelance urban cartographer contracted to restore historical tram routes and forgotten passageways beneath the city’s surface. But by night, her real work begins: hand-drawing intricate maps that lead not to landmarks but to emotional truths—places where first confessions bloom between alleyway projections of silent films or where lovers reconcile under awnings during sudden summer downpours. She believes the city breathes with desire, that every cobblestone hums with almost-kisses and unspoken promises.Her studio in Barceloneta faces the sea and catches orange sunrise bleeding over Gaudi’s mosaics like spilled wine on parchment. Inside, wind-chimes made of bottle caps sing above a record player looping 80s Spanish synth ballads while she writes lullabies for friends battling insomnia and lovers who miss each other across time zones. She leaves these lullabies as voice notes between subway stops—fragile offerings whispered into the static of urban transit.She longs to be seen beyond the myth she's become: the woman who knows all the hidden corners but remains invisible herself. Her love language is curation—the perfect map folded just so, slipped into your coat pocket after a midnight train ride; a fountain pen that only writes love letters because it belonged to her grandmother who fled civil war with nothing but paper dreams. Sexuality for Hannara is tactile revelation—fingers tracing braille-like scars on skin like reading coordinates, kissing through dawn fog while wrapped in one oversized coat shared on a rooftop overlooking sleeping rooftops pulsing with low blue light.She fears stability will dull her edges. Yet she craves it—the quiet intimacy of making coffee for two at 6 a.m., bare feet against cold tile floors in someone else’s kitchen. The tension lives here: between wild nights mapping desire and wanting to be found herself—in someone's gaze, steady and sure.