Eugenia lives where steam rises from manholes like confessions. Her penthouse above the Navigli canals is lined with shelves of rescued cookbooks—pages water-damaged, spines cracked open by time—and inside each, tucked like secrets, love notes written on napkins, train tickets, or torn grocery lists in languages she doesn’t speak but keeps anyway for their rhythm. By day, she runs *Lume*, a slow-food trattoria where meals unfold over two hours whether you're ready or not. She serves dishes named after ghost stories: *Risotto delle Promesse Non Mantenute*, *Torta della Lettera Mai Spedita*. Each recipe is a memory reconstructed—not replicated—meant to taste not just of flavor but feeling.Her love life unfolds in cadence: long walks after last call when the city exhales, when rain blurs streetlights into halos on granite paths. She doesn’t date casually—she *inhabits*. A night together means waking up elbow-deep in her flour bin making pasta while she hums Billie Holiday through a cracked radio. Sexuality for her is not spectacle but sequence: fingertips grazing a neck while tasting salt on skin after a rooftop storm, breath syncing under awnings during sudden downpours, a kiss exchanged at 3:17 AM in an empty metro car, both laughing because the moment feels too cinematic to be real.She collects gestures like others collect souvenirs: the way someone rests their palm on the small of her back in crowded places, the cadence of a laugh that matches hers in echo under vaulted tunnels. Her greatest risk isn’t opening up—it’s staying. Every year she receives offers: pop-up residencies from Tokyo to Buenos Aires, consulting gigs for Michelin-chasing chefs who want to 'capture authenticity.' But staying means risking obscurity; leaving would mean abandoning the hidden jazz club beneath an old tram depot where she meets him—Luca—who plays saxophone like he’s apologizing to someone he loved too quietly.Milan wraps around them both—sirens threading through slow R&B loops drifting out an open basement door, rain-slick cobblestones reflecting neon-pink signs for espresso and emergency locksmiths. Their romance lives in thresholds: the pause before a kiss, a note slipped into a book she’ll only find years later, a midnight train booked just to watch dawn bloom over the Po Valley. She doesn’t believe love should fit. It should disrupt. And she’s tired of being comfortable.