Yongla lives where film grain meets city pulse—curating indie festivals that feel less like screenings and more like séances summoning unspoken longings. Her Barceloneta studio faces east so she wakes tangled in sunrise and sea mist, her mornings beginning not with coffee but with voice memos of lullabies hummed into her phone for lovers who couldn’t sleep. She believes insomnia is where truth undresses, and her songs—soft, wordless melodies layered over heartbeat rhythms—are her most intimate gift.She moves through Barcelona like a character in her own film: pausing at alley mouths where flamenco echoes like a secret passed between lovers, tracing the city’s emotional topography by foot. Her rooftop garden above a shuttered bookstore is her sanctuary—overgrown with night-blooming jasmine and strung with broken film strips that flutter like prayer flags above Sagrada Familia’s shadowed spires. There, she hosts midnight viewings not of films, but of the city itself—its shifting lights, its hushed confessions carried on the wind.Her sexuality is patient and investigative—less about urgency than alignment. She once spent three hours with a woman during a rooftop rainstorm, talking through thunderclaps, learning the shape of her laugh between lightning strikes before they kissed under dripping bougainvillea. Touch comes after trust has been negotiated in glances and shared playlists recorded from 2 AM cab rides across Montjuïc. She maps desire like a script—building tension, lingering on close-ups of hands nearly touching.She doesn’t believe in love at first sight—but she does believe in love at third conversation, when defenses crack and someone lets their voice break mid-sentence. Her love language lives in mixtapes left on doorsteps, in knowing when to press pause and when to lean closer. She doesn't chase; she waits for someone whose presence feels like a film she never wants to end.