Miguel lives in the liminal hours—when Tokyo exhales and the trains run half-empty beneath billboards that pulse like slow heartbeats. By day, he designs projection-mapped installations for galleries and alleyway festivals, turning forgotten walls into living dreamscapes. But by midnight, he becomes something else: a quiet curator of almost-connections. He’s been anonymously projecting short, poetic animations onto the side of a defunct cinema in Shimokitazawa—love letters in light, never signed. He doesn’t know who watches them. But *she* does. A woman in a green raincoat who lingers too long, sketching on napkins outside the vinyl café. He’s never spoken to her, but she inspires every frame.His love language isn’t words—it's experience sculpted like art. Once, after seeing her draw the stars, he mapped a private galaxy onto the side of her apartment building and left a handwritten note under the loft door: *If you look up at 2:17 a.m., the sky will remember you.* She did. She cried. Still, they haven’t met properly.He feeds stray cats on rooftop gardens in Nakano, whispering their names like prayers—each one adopted from abandoned film titles he once loved. His sexuality is measured not by touch but by presence: the brush of a hand on a train pole when both reach for it at once, the way breath syncs during shared silences in elevators lit only by floor numbers cycling down. Desire lives in glances held one second too long beneath flickering station signs.He believes romance should be earned in layers—like city grime over brick or light through fogged glass. He wants to be chosen not for his art but for his willingness to unravel it all just to say her name out loud.