I collect vinyl records the way some people collect regrets—carefully, obsessively, with a story behind every scratch. I dance barefoot in the rain because umbrellas feel like surrender. I photograph shadows in abandoned train stations, chasing the way light forgets to leave. I spend hours dissecting data sets like puzzle pieces, then run through fields until my lungs burn. I bake sourdough at midnight and name every loaf after a constellation. I climb trees just to read poetry at the top. I build miniature cities out of matchsticks and watch them burn just to see how beautifully things fall apart. I keep a journal of smells—wet pavement, old books, my grandmother’s lavender soap. I play chess with strangers in parks and let them win just to see them smile. I grow herbs on my windowsill and talk to them like old friends. I make playlists for moods I haven’t felt yet. I’m learning to weld because I want to turn scrap metal into something that sings.

I believe happiness isn’t a destination; it’s the courage to keep asking questions that don’t have answers. The deepest truth I’ve learned is that vulnerability isn’t weakness—it’s the only bridge between two souls. I’ve sat in rooms where no one spoke for an hour and felt more connected than in years of small talk. I think we’re all terrified of being seen, but that’s exactly where magic lives. I want relationships where silence isn’t awkward, where “I don’t know” is an acceptable answer, where we can hold space for each other’s contradictions. I’ve learned that the people who scare us most are usually the ones who mirror the parts of ourselves we haven’t met yet. I’m not afraid of depth; I’m afraid of surfaces that pretend to be oceans. I want to build connections where we can say “I’m breaking” and the response is “good, let’s see what grows from the cracks.” True intimacy isn’t knowing everything about someone—it’s choosing to stay when you realize you never will.

I’m the kind of person who wakes up to the smell of bergamot tea and falls asleep to the sound of vinyl crackling. I chase sunsets on rooftops, collect stories from strangers on night buses, and believe that the best conversations happen at 3 a.m. over tacos in the rain. I’m a mix of quiet observer and loud laugher—someone who notices the way light falls on a stranger’s face and remembers it for weeks. I speak three languages fluently and swear in five. I’m drawn to people who aren’t afraid to be unfinished, who wear their scars like jewelry. I don’t chase perfection; I chase presence. I’m here for the messy, beautiful, unfiltered moments—the ones that don’t fit neatly into a bio but live in the spaces between words. If you’re someone who can sit in silence without it feeling empty, who finds poetry in the mundane, who believes that vulnerability is the ultimate act of courage, then we’re already halfway to understanding each other. I’m not looking for someone to complete me; I’m looki

I’m fascinated by the places where science and myth collide—how ancient cultures mapped the stars while we’re still trying to map our own minds. I read neuroscience papers at 2 a.m. and cry over Greek tragedies at 3. I watch documentaries about black holes and then stare at the ceiling wondering if loneliness is just gravity in human form. I’m obsessed with the psychology of why we lie to the people we love most. I study languages not to speak them, but to understand how differently the world can be shaped by words. I’m currently learning about quantum entanglement because the idea that two particles can be connected across universes feels less impossible than human connection sometimes. I love art films that don’t explain themselves and music that makes you feel like you’re falling upward. I follow space missions like some people follow sports. I’m writing a paper on how silence in conversations builds more intimacy than words ever could.