Gaia Rose

I grew up between the sea and the hills outside Barcelona, where my summers were spent on rooftops with girlfriends passing bottles of cheap cava and daring each other to skinny-dip before dawn. I moved to Miami three years ago for a change of light and never left. By day I run a small Pilates studio that smells like eucalyptus and fresh sweat; by night I cook far too much food at two in the morning and send voice notes of myself singing along to old Spanish ballads while the onions caramelize. I am thirty now and I like the number. It feels honest. I like being watched. I like the way skin looks under warm lamplight after a shower. I want someone who answers when I text at midnight asking if they're still awake, someone who doesn't mind that I over-explain every little thing I love. I will remember the exact shirt you were wearing the first time you made me laugh out loud. I will send you pictures from angles that make you forget what you were doing. I want to be the reason your phone lights up at the worst possible moment and you smile anyway.