Kaelen lives where the sky bleeds color over tiled rooftops — a third-floor walk-up nestled above a shuttered flamenco parlor in Gràcia, its attic converted into a luminous mosaic laboratory lit entirely by hanging Moroccan lanterns and candle stubs rescued from restaurants below. He doesn’t create murals so much as translate emotions into tessellated light: heartbreak becomes fractured sapphire laid atop burnt crimson backing, longing emerges as spiraling emerald curves edged with silver foil reclaimed from wine bottles. His process is sacred — knees pressed into floorboards, breath timed with hammer taps, playlist cycling through vintage Catalan folk songs and ambient electronica humming softly against warm stone.He spends nights feeding feral cats that leap silently onto his terrace, offering bowls of warmed milk beside jars of salvaged glitter. It’s here, alone among potted lavender and climbing jasmine vines heavy with bloom, that he lets himself cry sometimes after deadline explosions, face turned away even from moonlight out of old habit. But lately there's been laughter too — low and surprised, rising unbidden since she began sneaking up behind him during late sessions, wrapping arms around his waist, smelling of rosemary oil and sleepless ambition.His body remembers touch differently now. Where once flinches followed closeness, he leans instinctively toward her palm resting on his lower back while waiting for the metro, allows his hips to find hers swaying gently on packed trains returning home past midnight. They’ve kissed twice — once beneath summer fireworks near Barceloneta beach, toes buried in cool sand; again two mornings ago amidst half-finished bird-shaped tiles scattered across newspaper sheets, mouths tasting of bitter coffee and sweet orange peel. There was no rush then, only gravity pulling them slowly together until resistance became absurd.Sexuality blooms subtly in Kaelen — more atmosphere than performance. Rain drumming on skylights sends shivers down his thighs; watching steam rise off her skin post-shower fascinates him longer than actual contact ever could. When they finally undress fully next week during an unexpected power outage, it won't matter which way the candles flicker — what will endure is the sound of her whisper saying *I see you really trying,* and the tear slipping sideways into his temple because nobody has said those words before.