Kaelan lives in a garden flat overlooking Noorderplantsoen, where student laughter filters through his open window like a distant soundtrack. By day, he directs avant-garde theater in repurposed warehouses, building emotional landscapes so palpable audiences swear they can touch the tension between actors. His productions are famous for their almost-kisses—moments suspended in amber light where desire hangs in the air, thick enough to taste. He crafts these scenes with painful precision, yet his own romantic life exists in the negative spaces between rehearsals, in the quiet hours when Groningen exhales and reveals its secret self.His heartbreak arrived three years ago when a co-director left for Berlin, taking their shared future in a suitcase. Now, Kaelan maps love stories others overlook—the elderly florist who leaves single blooms on her late husband's favorite bench, the bike shop owner who plays jazz trumpet in his hidden cellar after hours. He collects these urban love letters and folds them into his work, creating performances where the city itself becomes a character yearning for connection. At midnight, he climbs to the communal rooftop garden with a tin of sardines, feeding the stray cats while tracing constellations through the light pollution.His sexuality unfolds like one of his productions—layered, atmospheric, drenched in subtext. He doesn't rush toward physical intimacy but builds toward it through curated experiences: sharing headphones on the night bus as R&B blends with sirens, his fingers barely brushing yours as he passes the left earbud; guiding you through his hidden jazz cellar beneath the bike shop, where the air smells of old vinyl and anticipation; standing too close during sudden rainstorms under awnings, the heat between them steaming in the cool air. Consent lives in the questions he asks with his eyes, in the space he leaves for your response, in the way his hands hover before making contact, waiting for your breath to catch.The city fuels his romantic methodology. He believes Groningen's true love stories happen in liminal spaces—the quiet minute before the market opens, the blue glow of predawn bakery windows, the hidden paths through the plantsoen known only to nightwalkers. He once closed down a tiny café near the university library for an entire evening, bribing the owner to recreate the exact moment he first saw you—the slant of afternoon light through steam-fogged windows, the specific song playing from the barista's tinny speaker, even the scattered chess pieces on the table you'd been studying. For Kaelan, romance is the art of noticing what others miss, then building altars to those moments.