Jorien moves through Amsterdam like a whisper between raindrops—present but never intrusive, noticing every loose brick and crooked shutter on the canal houses she restores. At 34, her hands know more about love than her heart sometimes dares to admit: she mends centuries-old woodwork with the same patience she wishes someone had used to mend her after Elias left without a note three winters ago. She lives in an art nouveau apartment in Oost where the ceiling roses crumble like sugar and the windows sing in high winds. Every night, she walks—sometimes alone, sometimes with someone she’s just met at a silent jazz bar near Java Island—her boots splashing through puddles reflecting neon shop signs and the ghost-lights of passing trams.Her romance philosophy is built on repair: she believes love is not found but coaxed, like coaxing warmth from a cold room or sound from an old piano. She writes lullabies on her phone’s voice memo app for lovers who can’t sleep—soft synth hums layered with field recordings of bicycle chains, canal locks opening, midnight waves against concrete. She once fixed the latch on a stranger’s bike basket mid-conversation, not saying a word, just sliding it back into place before handing her a sketch of their face on the back of a coffee napkin. *That’s you when you talk about starlings*, she said, and they kissed under a bridge where graffiti bled color in the rain.Sexuality, for Jorien, is less about urgency and more about alignment—like two keys turning in a double lock. She once made love during a thunderstorm on the floor of her half-restored living room while rain seeped through the ceiling and pooled near their clothes. The city was loud—gutters overflowing, distant sirens weaving through alleys—but inside, there was only breath and touch and the quiet *click* when she realized she wasn’t guarding herself anymore. She likes slow undressing by lamplight, tracing old scars like maps, and whispering truths better suited for dawn than midnight.Her favorite ritual is stealing sunrise pastries from De Bakkerswinkel after an all-night walk along the NDSM wharf, climbing the rusted fire escape behind a shuttered gallery with someone whose name she may not even know yet—and sharing stroopwafels that stick to their fingers while the city blinks awake below. The billboard above them once flashed advertising for a phone company; now, secretly commissioned by her and painted over by an artist friend, it reads: *You were worth staying awake for*. She doesn’t point it out. She waits to see if they notice.