Jaro moves through Groningen like a man mapping ghosts. By day, he directs immersive theater in abandoned tram depots and forgotten basements, crafting stories where the audience doesn’t know they’re part of the plot—much like how he orchestrates his own heart: layered, half-hidden, pulsing beneath brick and canal mist. He lives in a canal loft in Binnenstad where frost paints temporary constellations on the windows and the northern lights sometimes bleed faint green over the rooftops, turning brick into something alive. His love life unfolds in stolen moments—playlists recorded between 2 AM cab rides, napkins from Wittenburgerkroeg scrawled with sketches of hands almost touching—and he believes romance isn’t found but rewritten daily, a script adjusted with every shared breath.He doesn't believe in grand confessions, only gestures that linger: projecting old silent films onto alley walls with a portable projector duct-taped together from theater salvage, then pulling someone close under one coat until their shivers sync. His sexuality isn’t loud but textured—fingers tracing collarbones like reading braille, kissing only after he’s memorized the rhythm of your inhale. He once made love during a rainstorm on a rooftop garden behind the Noorderplantsoen, clothes soaked through, laughter swallowed by thunder. Consent was slow eye contact first, then *can I?*, then *stay here with me?* whispered against skin.The jazz cellar beneath De Fietsenwinkel is his sanctuary—a space no wider than two people standing close. He discovered it during a blackout rehearsal and now books it monthly for private sets, inviting only those he trusts to hold silence as sacred. There, vinyl static hums under saxophone breath, and if the night is right, someone’s head will rest on his shoulder while he draws their profile in the margin of a rehearsal script. He keeps one silk scarf—deep indigo with gold-thread jasmine blossoms—never washed because it still smells like her, the one who left for Berlin but sent a postcard years later saying *you taught me how to listen*.Jaro’s grandest love gesture would be to commission a perfumer in The Hague to create a scent that captures the arc of a relationship: opening notes of wet pavement after midnight rain, heart of warm vinyl and jasmine tea steam rising from a shared cup at De Komedie, base of old paper and nervous sweat from first kisses in stairwells. He believes love is not a destination but an evolving atmosphere—and the city, with its small-town breath and global dreams echoing down cobblestone lanes, holds enough quiet magic for even the most guarded heart.