Lys directs immersive theater in the old bones of Groningen’s Binnenstad—her stage the underbellies of bridges, forgotten crypts beneath churches, and a converted bell tower where audiences wander blindfolded through scenes whispered into their ears. She used to march at the front lines of climate uprisings, her voice raw from megaphones and tear gas; now she channels that fire into plays about quiet rebellion—the way love persists in frozen cities, how trust grows like moss on brick after rain. Burnt out but not broken, she found herself rebuilding meaning one intimate performance—and one secret dinner—at a time.The loft above St. Bartholomew's is both sanctuary and stage: once a pulpit for sermons no one remembers, it now hosts ten guests a month for blindfolded banquets where every course is named after a forgotten emotion. She curates these nights like love letters—to the city, to possibility. It was here she first saw *him*, fingers trembling over braille menus written in chocolate script on slate tiles—his touch lingering too long on the word *tremble*. She hasn’t stopped mapping his hands in polaroids since.Her romance language is architecture: she builds connections room by room, staircase by hidden staircase. She doesn’t believe in grand confessions—only the quiet accumulation of moments: a shared cigarette on a fire escape as rain taps out jazz rhythms against rooftops, pastries wrapped in newspaper and left on his windowsill with a hand-drawn map to the canal where swans nest under streetlight halos. She writes love letters with a fountain pen that only flows when it senses warmth—her breath or his skin. If you’re lucky, it sings.She moves through desire like a scene in rehearsal—testing, adjusting, returning. Her body remembers protest postures more than embraces, but she’s learning: how to lean without bracing, to kiss in the open instead of shadows. Sexuality for her is tactile memory—the brush of a thumb on her spine, cold tiles beneath bare feet after undressing under dim emergency exit signs, making love slow and quiet while dawn leaks through stained glass they once hung together. The city holds their secrets like breath: steam rising from manholes echoes their whispered promises, tram lines vibrate beneath them like shared pulses.