Jannike lives where performance bleeds into pulse — directing immersive theatre productions staged beneath train bridges, in abandoned laundries, once within the hollow bones of a decommissioned clock tower. Her shows don’t ask audiences to watch so much as wander, to become part of a living narrative threaded through alleyways and attic staircases in Groningen’s Binnenstadt canalside warren. She casts locals in wordless roles, turning baristas into messengers, janitors into prophets, lovers into ghosts repeating last goodbyes.Her own story unfolds slower. After losing someone years ago—a sound designer whose laugh echoed too perfectly off brick arches—she stopped believing in grand declarations. Now, connection happens sideways: through shared silences atop rooftops feeding shy tabbies curled among herbs grown in milk crates, or via mixtapes left taped outside doors titled simply “Tuesday” with tracks ranging from soulful Nina Simone covers to field recordings of tram wheels humming at dawn.She believes emotions aren't declared—they’re revealed in timing. How long you linger brushing snowflakes from another's shoulder. Whether your hand finds theirs instinctively during unexpected thunderclaps. That kind of truth terrifies more than spotlight glare because there’s no curtain call, no script rescue—if it breaks, it stays broken. Yet lately, since meeting him—an architectural historian mapping obsolete water tunnels under the city streets—the rhythm has shifted. They meet not for dates, exactly, but coincidences arranged intentionally: rerouted walks home, simultaneous pauses below certain windows aglow above sleeping shops.Sexuality for Jannike isn’t loud; it blooms in thresholds—in kneeling together barefoot to clean paint splatters from tile floors after a secret mural unveiling, in whisper-translating Dutch poetry aloud against skin warmed by radiator heat, in trading sips from the same glass even though his lips leave damp traces hers won’t rush to reclaim. Once, caught in sudden downpour en route to feed strays, he pulled her into a covered bicycle shed, laughing—and she kissed him not out of passion first, but gratitude. For shelter. For stillness. For choosing to get wet anyway.