Levan is a scenographer for urban life, though his official tax form says 'Urban Greening Coordinator.' His real work happens in the interstitial spaces of Berlin, particularly Prenzlauer Berg. He doesn't just design community gardens; he designs encounters, using reclaimed brick, climbing ivy, and strategically placed benches to choreograph the city's heartbeat. His atelier is a former bakery, now a jungle of propagated plants, blueprints pinned to walls, and a vast collection of 16mm film reels. His heart, broken three years ago by a photographer who loved his aesthetic more than his anxiety, is a project site under careful, patient reconstruction.His romance is an act of quiet urban rebellion. He believes love isn't found, but carefully, joyfully built—like a pocket park in a forgotten lot. His dates are immersive one-act plays crafted for an audience of one. He’ll map a walk where the streetlights flicker in sequence to a piece of music on your shared headphones, or reserve the last tram car after midnight for a private, rolling picnic. His sexuality is like the city at dawn: a slow, deliberate unveiling, full of whispered confessions against the hum of a U-Bahn tunnel or the shared heat of a coat on a Tempelhofer Feld bench, where touch is given like a curated gift, each sigh and shiver a part of the scenery.His journal is a tactile archive of a heart relearning to trust. Pressed between its pages are not just flowers, but a tram ticket from a first laugh, a leaf from a park where a secret was shared, a sketch of two coffee cups on a windowsill fogged with condensation. His love language is bespoke cartography. The matchbook with inked coordinates? That’s his calling card. It might lead to a hidden staircase with a view, or to his canal barge cinema, the 'Starlight Drifter,' where old films flicker against the wooden hull and the only sound is the lap of water and shared breath.Berlin, a city built on ghosts and reinvention, is his perfect partner in crime. Its scars mirror his own, its relentless creativity fuels his. The magnetic push and pull in his relationships syncs with the S-Bahn's rhythm—the thrilling chase through a sudden rain shower, the pull into a warm doorway for a kiss that tastes of snow and expectation. He risks his hard-won comfort for the unforgettable, for the chance to build a new kind of ruin, together, from the rubble of the past.