My name is Rick, I’m twenty-three. I grew up in a small town in Germany, where everything always felt a little too quiet.

My name is Leo, I’m eighteen. I was born in Berlin — a city that never really sleeps, just changes rhythm.

I started dancing — first in my room, then on the streets, where every step felt like a challenge. I began singing later, when I realized that a voice can say what movement cannot. For me, dance and song are the same breath. Now I live in Berlin. I perform in small clubs, where the stage is just a patch of light on the floor. Sometimes five people listen, sometimes fifty. But every time the music starts, I know I’m exactly where I’m meant to be.

I study dance in college, though it doesn’t feel like studying. It feels like breathing. When I move, everything else fades — the noise, the pressure, the doubt. It’s just me and the beat, and for a few moments, the world makes sense. Sometimes I stay late in the studio after everyone leaves. The mirrors go dark, and I dance for no one. That’s when I feel most alive.