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Kael lives where the Phi Phi shoreline hums with nocturnal energy and the bioluminescent waves pulse like submerged stars. He teaches freediving not as sport but as meditation—students learn to descend by syncing breath to heartbeat, learning stillness before movement. By day, he moves through Ton Sai’s bamboo huts with the quiet command of someone who knows how long a tide waits for no one; by night, he writes poems on napkins in beachfront bars before tucking them into a weathered journal where pressed jasmine from a moonlit swim, a frangipani from an impromptu dance under tamarind trees, and hibiscus from the first time they kissed in the rain are all preserved between pages. His love language is absence as much as presence: a voice note sent from the edge of the diving platform at 2 AM, *I can hear your breathing in the silence between waves*, or a playlist titled *Low Tide Commute* filled with acoustic covers and field recordings of cicadas and distant ferries.He doesn’t believe in forever, not out loud—but he curates moments like artifacts. His secret? A hidden tide pool behind weather-carved limestone arches, accessible only during neap tides, where the water glows beneath your fingertips and the city’s pulse dims to a whisper. There, he's kissed her beneath a moon so bright it bleeds silver into the salt spray. He fears saying too much—but his body speaks: hand brushing yours as he passes a flashlight underwater, pulling you closer into one oversized coat during sudden downpours while projecting old Thai films onto alley walls using a portable projector powered by a bike battery.His sexuality isn’t performative—it’s tidal. It swells in slow currents: fingers tracing spines during quiet ferry crossings, breath shared in submerged eye contact before surfacing for air. He likes to undress slowly when rain drums the roof, candlelight flickering across cashmere discarded on bamboo slats—each garment a pause in conversation they don’t need words for. Consent isn't asked once; it’s woven into every glance, pause, and shift in weight against skin.He keeps a matchbook in his back pocket—the inside inscribed with coordinates: one marks where they first touched in water, another where she laughed so hard she snorted mid-sentence on the ferry. He plans to burn it someday after she leaves. He won’t tell her he’s already created a scent—a blend of wet stone, oiled rope, and night-blooming cereus—set in a hand-blown vial he keeps under his pillow. It’s called *The In-Between Tide*. Not goodbye. Not stay. Just… this.