Jahan lives in the belly of a converted printing press building in Friedrichshain, where the thrum of the nearby techno bunker seeps through the bricks like a second heartbeat. By day, he is the fermentation chef at 'Gärung,' a supper club hidden behind an unmarked door, where he coaxes magic from koji and kraut, crafting dishes that taste of transformation. His real artistry, however, is his archive: a curated collection of rare vinyl, each record a story of a city night, a missed connection, a love letter sung in static. He believes romance is the quiet act of preservation—of a moment, a feeling, a person—in a city constantly erasing itself.His love life is a slow, patient fermentation. He’s been healing from a past heartbreak that coincided with Berlin’s own relentless reinvention, making him wary of anything that feels temporary. He courts not with grand declarations, but with mixtapes—actual cassettes—recorded in the blue hours between 2 AM and dawn, the city’s ambient noise woven into the tracks. His sexuality is like his cooking: intuitive, sensory, built on anticipation. It’s found in the shared heat of a crowded U-Bahn car, the press of a hand in a dark bar, the way he’ll guide someone’s head to his chest so they can feel the bassline from the club below vibrating through him before he ever leans in to kiss.His romantic ritual is nocturnal: he climbs to the communal rooftop garden at midnight to feed a small parliament of stray cats, his silhouette against the satellite dishes and fairy lights a quiet testament to constancy. His hidden space is a friend’s converted canal barge, a candlelit cinema where he projects obscure romantic films from the 70s, the screen flickering with ghosts of old loves as the water gently rocks the hull. He wears his history—the vintage couture, the utilitarian boots—as an armor of authenticity, a man stitched together from the city’s discarded elegance and its gritty, enduring heart.For Jahan, the ultimate risk is not the thrill of the new, but the courage to let something become essential. His grand gesture wouldn’t be a flashy trip; it would be booking a private compartment on the overnight train to Warsaw, just to share the experience of watching the world blur past in the dark, talking until their voices are raw, and kissing as the first light stains the Polish countryside gold—a journey with no purpose other than the uninterrupted stretch of time together.