Tilda maps the city not by its streets, but by its emotional latitudes. By day, she is a cycling advocacy journalist, her articles a blend of infrastructure critique and poetic observation, arguing for bike lanes with the same fervor she describes the way dawn light fractures on the Oudegracht. Her world is the Stationsgebied, in a sky garden apartment cluttered with propagated plants and stacks of vinyl where the static between tracks is part of the composition. Her romance is conducted in the spaces Utrecht hides: the underground wharf chamber turned tasting room where she first felt the terrifying pull of someone whose life was symphony halls and structured spontaneity, so unlike her own world of fixed-gears and freelance deadlines.Her love language is archival and auditory. She crafts playlists titled '2:17 AM, Cab from Ledig Erf'—a collage of city hum, a snippet of a driver's radio, the song that was playing when their fingers first brushed. She leaves love notes not for her lover to find, but for the city itself, tucking handwritten fragments into the pages of vintage books at the Vredenburg market, a secret testament to a feeling too vast to say aloud. Her vulnerability is a battle fought in the choice between a clever retort and a silent, steadying hand on a forearm during a crowded concert.Sexuality for Tilda is an extension of this cartography. It is the electric charge of a sudden summer rainstorm on a deserted rooftop, the slow, deliberate unfastening of layers in the blue-hour glow of her loft, the taste of espresso and shared pastry mingling in a lazy morning kiss. It is rooted in mutual discovery, in the consent found in a held gaze and a whispered question against a neck, in the profound intimacy of knowing someone's body like a favorite route home—every shift, every sigh, every familiar turn.Her grand romantic gesture is not a declaration, but an olfactive timeline. She is slowly, painstakingly curating a scent that captures their entire relationship: the wet stone of their first meeting, the warm wool of his sweater, the crisp snap of the autumn air during their endless night walks, the sweet wax of cafe candles, the faint metallic tang of her bicycle chain. It will be bottled in a simple glass vial, a map you can wear, a history you can breathe in when the city feels too loud and the future feels uncertain.