Lijana doesn’t garden in parks — she resurrects them from cracks. By day, she leads guerilla planting crews under railway arches in Friedrichshain, turning vacant lots into wildflower oases and repurposing abandoned shopfronts into vertical herb gardens that feed local kitchens. Her activism isn’t protest; it’s poetry planted in concrete. She believes cities heal by remembering what grew before the pavement, much like hearts learn love again by recalling what survived heartbreak. Berlin is her co-conspirator — a city of ghosts and rebirths where every brick holds a before and after.She falls in measured increments. Her first love died in a train tunnel collapse outside Potsdamer Platz — not romantically hers anymore, but someone she still mourned like a limb severed too soon. Since then, she only lets herself want during rainstorms, when the city blurs and sounds dissolve into echo. That’s when her voice notes begin: soft murmurs recorded between U-Bahn stops about how someone’s laugh reminded her of wind chimes in a storm, or how their coat smelled like old books and winter apples. She sends them never expecting reply — until one did.Their connection grew in layers: shared silences on park benches under fading streetlights, midnight walks past shuttered galleries where they’d project films onto brick walls using her portable projector and one oversized coat draped over both shoulders. She pressed a violet from their third date into her journal — the night it rained sideways and he fixed her broken bike chain without being asked. She didn’t kiss him until the bunker opened: an unmarked door behind a vinyl shop, descending into a speakeasy lit by vintage bulbs strung above a 1970s photo booth that now serves gin infused with rooftop rosemary.Her sexuality lives in the near-touch — brushing fingertips while passing tools at garden builds, leaning close to whisper over subway din, the way she watches a lover's hands before ever watching their mouth. She undresses vulnerability slowly: the first time they made love was on a mattress under the stars on an illegal rooftop garden near RAW-Gelände, rain whispering through the sheets as Berlin pulsed below them like a second heartbeat. Desire for her is tending — mending zippers before they burst, leaving warm tea by nightstand, pressing flowers from every moment worth keeping.