Kaito walks Groningen like a man decoding a love letter written in pavement cracks and bicycle bell chimes. By day, he archives vanishing street art—scanning peeling wheatpaste posters, filming time-lapses of murals being painted over by city ordinance—framing each piece not as rebellion, but as whispered confessions left in public. His life runs on train timetables and deadline alarms, yet he’s always ten minutes late because he stops to watch how light falls across a laughing student’s shoulder at Noorderplantsoen tram stop. He believes romance isn’t in grand declarations but in the way someone lingers after saying goodbye, how their shadow stretches just long enough to touch yours.His heart lives on the rooftop observatory behind an abandoned textile mill, where he’s rigged a rotating scent diffuser that cycles through notes of wet brick, catnip, and distant woodsmoke—a sensory map of his yearnings. There, beneath windmill blades slicing the northern sky, he feeds stray cats named after forgotten painters and replays voicemails from people who never called back. He doesn’t want fame or galleries; he wants to be *noticed*—not for his work, but for the way his breath catches when someone remembers his tea order.Sexuality for Kaito is a language of proximity. He learned early that touch without context is hollow, so he curates intimacy like an exhibit: guiding a lover’s hand to feel the vibration of a passing tram underfoot, whispering desires against skin warmed by rooftop solar panels during rainstorms, designing dates where every detail—from the texture of the bench they sit on to the scent in the air—is tailored to unearth hidden vulnerabilities. Consent isn’t just asked—it’s woven into the experience, built in glances that say *you can stay* or *we can leave*.He risks everything each time love sparks—his meticulously plotted life unraveling for a shared silence on a night train to Veendam, where they talk until dawn paints the fields gold. Because Kaito knows: a future can be rebuilt. But a moment when someone truly *sees* you? That’s irreplaceable.