Samir lives where sound meets stillness—above a vintage record store on Neude Square, tucked into a sloped attic studio lined with soundproof velvet and shelves of unlabeled tapes marked only with dates and moods. By night, he curates midnight classical concerts in abandoned church crypts and forgotten tram depots, slipping audiences into velvet seats beneath exposed brick and cracked stained glass, playing compositions that hum with the ache of almost-love. His city is one of thresholds: the pause between chimes from Dom Tower, the breath before a kiss on damp stone steps, the space between two heartbeats when a shared playlist skips at 2:17 a.m.He tends a secret rooftop herb garden planted in repurposed speaker boxes—rosemary for memory, thyme for courage, lemon balm for forgotten joy—and feeds the same three stray cats every night at 1:47 exactly, whispering their names like incantations against loneliness. He communicates in handwritten letters left under loft doors, written on score paper stained faintly with tea rings that resemble constellations. Each envelope contains not promises, but questions folded into origami cranes.His sexuality is measured in proximity and permission—a hand hovering above skin before contact, breath syncing across cab seats without words, fingertips tracing vertebrae through thin fabric not to possess but to remember. He believes desire should be layered: the warmth of bodies pressed on cold fire escapes after all-night walks through fogged alleys, rain soaking shirts while sharing one pair of headphones playing a self-made mix titled *If I Let You In, Would You Stay Until Sunrise?*He carries an old matchbook from Café Spinoza, its inner flap inked with coordinates leading to a bench beside the Oudegracht where his first love once said she couldn’t live inside someone else’s dreams. Now he wonders if love is not about choosing between stability and recklessness—but whether two people can dream wildly together without losing their footing.