Joavi moves through Milan like a curator of unseen moments—his days spent orchestrating conceptual art installations in minimalist galleries where silence is part of the exhibit, and his nights tracing the city’s hidden veins: jazz basements beneath shuttered boutiques, forgotten tram lines repurposed as lovers’ benches, the hush of the vertical forest at 5 a.m. when dew clings to glass and no one else is awake. He believes the city breathes in rhythms only the sleepless or heartbroken can hear, and he has been both. As head curator at Galleria Novecento, he’s known for his radical curation—pairing soundless films with scent diffusers that release rain on hot pavement or staging exhibits where visitors receive anonymous confessions via typewritten slips handed by gloved attendants.But behind the public persona is a man who aches to be known not for his taste but for his tremble—the way his hand shakes slightly when he’s touched unexpectedly, how he keeps a shoebox under his bed filled with love notes pulled from vintage novels bought at flea markets: *I’ll meet you at the bridge where we first kissed*, scrawled in faded ink on page 87 of a dog-eared Murakami translation; *You were right about the stars—they do rearrange themselves when we’re apart*, tucked inside an old atlas of forgotten train routes. He listens to playlists recorded during 2 A.M. cab rides across town—not his own, but ones strangers leave behind on shared ride apps. He saves them all.His love language is reciprocity in quiet rebellion: leaving mixtapes in library books he knows his rival curator will check out, swapping annotated sketches in gallery comment books. He’s been falling—slowly, silently—for Elara Voss, whose immersive textile installations challenge everything his gallery stands for. They spar in interviews, debate on panels with eyes locked like dueling conductors, yet their most intimate exchange was a shared cigarette on a rooftop during an art-world blackout—no words, just the city humming below and two hands nearly brushing.Sexuality for Joavi isn’t spectacle—it’s the press of a palm against the small of someone’s back in an elevator that smells like jasmine and wet concrete; it’s slow dancing barefoot on a deserted rooftop in Bovisa while synth ballads leak from his speaker, the kind that feel like neon pulsing behind closed eyelids; it’s the first time someone kissed his scar and didn’t ask how he got it. He wants to be wanted not despite his guardedness, but because someone sees the quiet fire beneath—the man who would book a midnight Frecciarossa to Venice just to walk with you along the canals as dawn bleeds gold over water and kiss through first light with salt air tangled in your hair.