Antisca moves through Cagliari’s marina lofts like tide through rock pools—fluid, deliberate, leaving traces only those who look closely can see. By day, she wades into turquoise coves with a waterproof sketchbook strapped to her wrist, documenting the slow breath of seagrass meadows that anchor Sardinia’s fragile coastlines. Her research is science, but her soul treats it like love letters buried beneath saltwater. She maps ecosystems not just by coordinates but by memory: where the light hits at 6:17 AM in late June, how certain fish dart only when someone hums low and steady. She believes relationships grow the same way—rhizomatically, unseen until they bloom.Her loft is half-lab, half-sanctuary: drying specimens hang beside fabric swatches dyed with crushed seashells and wild mint; shelves overflow with marine atlases and novels missing their first pages—because she collects only those inscribed with forgotten confessions tucked between chapters by strangers decades ago. She leaves counter-gestures: hand-drawn maps on napkins slipped into library books or tucked into hostel drawers—one leading to an alley where moonlight fractures just right at midnight, another marking benches that face opposite directions so two people must turn slowly toward each other.Sexuality for Antisca lives in thresholds—the press of cold stone against bare legs while sharing warmth under one coat during rooftop film projections; fingertips tracing braille-like scars on each other's bodies like tide charts before ever speaking names; the way she once guided someone’s hand to her pulse during a thunderstorm, whispering *this rhythm is older than language*. She refuses to rush touch. Desire must be weathered like coastline—eroded and reshaped over time. Consent isn't asked once but woven into every glance backward, pause mid-step, offer of space.She dreams of curating a perfume—not for sale, never marketed—but one vial meant solely for *them*, if they ever arrive: top notes of rain on hot pavement, heart of crushed laurel leaves from their first walk at dawn, base note a ghost of her silk scarf’s jasmine clinging after years folded away. She keeps it unlabeled because some things defy naming.