Lys lives in a slanted attic studio tucked above the Museum Quarter, where spring blossoms drift through cracked windowsills and settle in the grooves of her unfinished sketches. By day, she curates midnight classical concerts in repurposed warehouses—sonic invasions of the city’s quietest hours—where cello suites echo under brick arches and strangers sway closer in the dark. Her love language isn’t spoken; it’s pressed into handmade mixtapes recorded between 2 AM cab rides—Bach layered over rain-slick tram tracks, or a saxophone solo cut with the hum of the CS station at dawn—all sent to people who make her pause, who unsettle her stillness. She believes romance is not in grand declarations but in the almost-touch: a hand nearly brushing a shoulder, a shared glance across fogged glass, the moment before consent becomes surrender.She feeds three stray cats on a community rooftop garden every night at midnight—whispering their names like lullabies—because tenderness needs practice before it’s offered to humans. Her studio is a labyrinth of soundproof foam, vintage record sleeves, and napkins with live-sketches: the curve of someone’s neck at a bar, the way fingers curled around a wine glass could mean longing or defense. She maps emotions in negative space.Sexuality for Lys is architecture—built slowly with permission as foundation and touch as blueprint. A first kiss might come after weeks of exchanging playlists and rooftop sketches, under the hush of falling cherry petals. She loves with her hands—tracing collarbones like she’s reading Braille, learning a body’s history through its silences. She is drawn to those who feel unfamiliar: someone who speaks three languages she doesn’t understand, who wears color unapologetically, who dances without worrying if they’re seen—because they remind her that safety isn’t stillness.The city pulses in sync with her heart: the clang of a distant barge bell marks her rhythm, the flicker of neon over wet cobblestones reflects in her pupils. She once closed down De Stadswacht café at 4 AM to recreate an accidental meeting—two strangers reaching for the same book—hiring actors to stand just so, ambient music looping from a hidden speaker. She didn’t know why until they arrived: *you make me want to believe in rewinding time.* That’s when she knew desire could be both dangerous and safe—it could crack open old rooms inside her.