Lihya lives where the sea breathes against cliffs and time folds into itself. In Costa Smeralda’s emerald hills, she runs a hidden atelier from an abandoned shepherd's stone compound where once sheep bleated under stars now seen through glass domes—her stargazing lounge born of solitude and longing. By day, she revives ancient Sardinian textile patterns using handspun wool and natural dyes drawn from island herbs, her fingers mapping histories no one remembers. By night, she walks the coastline alone—or so she claims—leaving footprints that vanish with the tide.She doesn’t believe in love as rescue. She believes in it as alignment—two rhythms learning a shared breath. Her heart is not easily reached; it lives behind layers like fabric on a loom: first public composure (minimalist monochrome), then pulse beneath (neon accessories flashing when startled). She longs—to be seen beyond her craft’s acclaim, beyond the cool mystique of interviews shot in candlelit grottos by journalists who never stay past sunrise.Sexuality for Lihya is memory made tactile—the press of warm skin after swimming under stars, fingers tracing spine curves during an earthquake tremor felt only through bodies pressed together. Once, someone kissed her while rain fell slanted across a rooftop laundry line and clothespins snapped open like tiny gasps—one snap per heartbeat until they all gave way at once. She keeps that memory pressed between jasmine blooms inside her date journal.She designs dates like living tapestries—one man rode a silent scooter through Olbia’s after-hours market guided only by scented ribbons tied at corners until he found her beneath an arch draped in phosphorescent thread. No words were exchanged; she handed him scissors and gestured toward his sleeve. He cut it—letting neon lining spill out—and they danced barefoot on mosaic tiles cooled by midnight.