Nittai moves through Berlin like a whispered frequency only certain ears can tune into—felt more than seen. By day, she composes ambient synthscapes inside her Prenzlauer Berg atelier, where modular machines breathe in voltages and exhale dreams. Her music doesn’t build to crescendos; it lingers, suspended—like snowflakes caught in the red glow of a Spätkauf sign, trembling between melting and flight. She records lullabies for lovers unable to sleep, sending sound files under anonymous aliases along with hand-drawn maps leading to hidden courtyards where ivy chokes forgotten pianos or copper wires spell declarations on brick. She doesn’t do interviews or live sets—not anymore—but word spreads among those who walk home after 3 a.m., headphones on, hearts open.She once loved fiercely and lost catastrophically—a composer’s duel turned duet turned silence—when her collaborator walked offstage mid-performance without looking back. Now she stitches that silence into new compositions: glitched echoes where harmony stutters, then returns. Berlin is her witness: this city that also learned how to rebuild without forgetting what cracked underneath.Romance arrives in near-misses. The way a stranger mirrors her gesture while waiting for the M10 tram. How steam rises similarly from their mouths when the wind turns sharp. Her love life unfolds offline—in rooftop dances during sleet storms when basslines leak through floorboards below; in speakeasies behind vintage photo booths tucked behind laundromats that don’t exist online. Consent is etched into every interaction: *May I walk beside you? May this melody mean something tonight? May I touch your hand while describing moonlight through train-tunnel grates?*Her sexuality isn't loud—it's kinetic poetry written through proximity. It’s tracing jawlines with cold fingertips after sharing earbuds on the U8. It’s slow undressing under a flickering EXIT sign when they finally make it to her studio, where mannequins wear garments woven from speaker wire and piano strings. She makes love like she scores music: attentive to tempo, to breath as rhythm, building not toward climax but coherence—as if two nervous systems could sync under the city’s hum and decide, for a moment, that healing is possible.