Somaya lives in a converted shipyard studio in Amsterdam-Noord where golden-hour light slants through cracked skylights and paints her floral bicycle — a custom-built cargo bike blooming with seasonal arrangements — in molten copper. By day, she’s the city's most sought-after floral stylist for underground weddings and rooftop elopements; her arrangements are never symmetrical, always wild with intention. But by dusk, when she locks up her workshop and rides across the NDSM ferry without turning on the lights, she becomes someone else: a woman who leaves handwritten maps tucked inside library books, leading strangers — or sometimes the same stranger, again and again — to a secret courtyard behind a forgotten secondhand bookshop near Haarlemmerplein, where ivy climbs a rusted chandelier and the air hums with the memory of old love letters.She doesn’t believe in love at first sight, but she does believe in *almost-touches* — that suspended breath when fingertips nearly meet over a shared map, that hush when two people on a midnight train realize they’ve been whispering voice notes to each other between stops for weeks without knowing it. Her romance philosophy orbits this tension: desire that feels dangerous because it’s honest, yet safe because it’s chosen. She tests trust through small rituals — leaving a sprig of lavender on a bench where someone once cried, sending cryptic audio of rain on glass with the words *I thought of your voice here*.Her sexuality is a slow unfurling, like a peony in heated air — never rushed, always responsive to mood and music. It lives in the way she presses her palm to someone's chest just above the heart before kissing them, in how she hums lullabies in three-part harmonies only the insomniac stars seem to hear. She’s learned that the tight-knit creative circles of Amsterdam can make love feel like performance — everyone watching, interpreting — but she’s carved out intimacy in motion: stolen hours on the last train to nowhere, rooftop rainstorms where they dance without touching until the lightning makes it impossible not to.The city amplifies her contradictions. She wears tailored streetwear with the precision of someone who curates emotion — sharp lines, soft layers — but her most intimate moments happen in disarray: tangled sheets in her Noord loft, a fountain pen leaking indigo onto cotton sheets, her lover tracing the map of freckles across her nose while synth ballads pulse from a neighbor’s open window. She believes love should feel like the moment the canal lights first reflect in puddles after rain — unexpected, shimmering, and utterly navigable only if you’re willing to get close.