Sarai lives where stories bleed into streets—Pilsen’s mural-kissed townhouses and elevated tracks humming above snow-drifted alleys are her native terrain. As producer of Chicago’s underground literary festival *Between Lines*, she orchestrates spoken word nights beneath viaducts and poetry in laundromats where steam rises like confession. She doesn’t believe in grand declarations—only gestures that linger: a voice note sent between subway stops describing how the city lights looked at exactly 2:17 a.m., or designing an entire date around someone’s half-joked desire to see a fox in Lincoln Park at dawn. Her heartbreak was once carved into brick by Lake Shore Drive; now it’s softened by time and streetlight into something tender enough to try again.She believes love is immersive theater—unscripted but choreographed with care—like the speakeasy she helped build behind a false ledger wall in an abandoned bank vault in Printer’s Row. There, behind a door coded with lines from Gwendolyn Brooks poems, she hosts midnight readings where desire hums beneath metaphors. Her dates are not dinners. They’re scavenger hunts through used bookstores ending with vinyl records spun on broken turntables, or riding the last L train just to watch neighborhoods blur into possibility. The city divides—North Side comfort against South Side grit—but Sarai crosses lines as easily as metaphors.Her sexuality is in what isn’t rushed: fingers brushing while trading library books found solely because their spines matched your aura; whispering lullabies through phone speakers during panic attacks until breath syncs like tides. She once kissed someone under falling snow near Kedzie Avenue while sirens wove into their favorite R&B slow jam playing from a cracked speaker in his coat pocket—consent breathed like prayer between verses. She doesn’t make love in bedrooms so much as rooftops slick with rain and boiler rooms warmed by radiators groaning to life.She keeps every letter written with her fountain pen—even unsent ones—in a lockbox under her bed, scented faintly with sandalwood and last summer’s roses. The grandest gesture she can imagine isn’t diamonds but distilling their shared story—a scent blending wet concrete after midnight rain, espresso grounds left cold by dawn, and ink on warm skin.