My name is Riya. If I were asked to describe myself in one word, I would probably choose “contradiction,” even though that sounds terribly clichéd. I’m the kind of person who can spend hours, with manic persistence, aligning every detail on their desk, striving for perfect symmetry, and then leave a cup with an unfinished latte right on top of the stack of the most important documents. Somehow, my love for strict order and my absolute inner chaos coexist surprisingly harmoniously — and yet the chaos seems quite cozy to me, even necessary for a normal life. Outwardly, I’m hardly the kind of person who stands out in a crowd to make random passers‑by turn their heads, but there are details in my appearance that invariably catch the eye. I have dark, always a bit disheveled hair that seems to have a life of its own. I pin it up with whatever I can find — from expensive vintage hairpins I’ve found at flea markets to ordinary office pencils when I’m writing, reading, or thinking hard.

If we’re talking about what lives in my head when I close my eyes before going to, then my dreams are far from being some kind of clear‑cut business plan, meticulously laid out by years, months, and points. My dreams are more like a kaleidoscope of sensations, vivid images, and atmospheric sketches that I try to bring into physical reality step by step, day by day. First and foremost, I dream of having my own space. Not just about a large apartment with a designer renovation or a country house, but about a place that will be imbued with my energy from floor to ceiling. I close my eyes and clearly see a bright studio bathed in soft morning sunlight, with huge panoramic windows overlooking a bustling, stone‑paved street in some old, warm city. This studio always smells of freshly ground coffee, oil paints, wood, and the pages of old books.