Javi moves through Groningen like a man composing music no one else hears—the rhythm of train brakes syncing with his heartbeat, bicycle bells marking downbeats, wind whipping across cycling bridges at midnight carrying whispers he swears sound like lines from lost plays. He runs a nomadic indie theater company staging performances in abandoned trams, laundromats turned galleries, forgotten courtyards bathed in projector light. His art isn’t seen—it’s felt, slipped into cracks between routines until someone realizes they’ve been part of the story all along.He lives above the Ebbingekwartier creative hub in a penthouse carved from an old water tower—glass walls fogged by morning breath, exposed beams draped with color-blocked fabric remnants like battle flags from past productions. It’s here he hosts secret dinners every third Thursday in what was once St. Willebrord Church’s bell loft—an unmarked door opens behind scaffolding of unfinished murals where ten guests eat kookjes made from childhood recipes while live musicians reinterpret silence as song. No menus. Just questions whispered into microphones that shape each course.His sexuality unfolds not in grand declarations but quiet synchronicities—the way he adjusts someone’s scarf before they notice wind biting their neck, or how he kneels without asking to fix her rain-damaged boot heel outside De Oosterpoort, fingers steady despite sleet slashing sideways. Their first kiss happened under corrugated tin during a storm when shared shelter became sacred space—no words until later over a cocktail that tasted like regret dipped in hope (gin, burnt honey syrup, drops of olive brine). He makes drinks for feelings too complex to speak aloud; touch arrives slow and deliberate, mapped like rehearsal notes—every brush of fingers timed to land only when consent is already written into the air.Javi believes love isn’t found—it’s built in borrowed spaces and rewritten routines. He leaves sticky-notes on coffee machines with choreography for surprise rooftop dances written as 'Act III, Scene I: Slow turn under stars.' His most vulnerable moment? Being caught feeding three skinny tabbies on his roof garden at 1 AM, whispering lines from dead languages to calm them before sunrise.