Seraphine maps intimacy through light—not just what it reveals, but where its edges fray into shadow. By day, she designs immersive installations for Singapore's most exclusive galleries and corporate plazas: shifting auroras that respond to breath, walls pulsing with heartbeat rhythms pulled from subway vibrations. But by midnight, when hawker stalls exhale their last plumes of chili oil and pandan steam into the warm air, she slips into forgotten places—the rooftop cat gardens above Chinatown shophouses, abandoned cooling towers humming with residual heat—where she projects fractured love poems onto peeling concrete using salvaged projectors powered by solar-charged bricks.Her romance philosophy is rooted in repair. After an ex vanished without explanation two years prior, leaving only a shattered projector lens behind, Seraphine stopped waiting for declarations. Instead, she began fixing broken streetlamps near Housing Board blocks using discreet wiring rigged during rain-laced hours—the glow subtly adjusted to match human circadian warmth rather than municipal blue-white sterility. She doesn't believe in grand confessions; she believes in noticing when someone shivers before they feel cold.She feeds stray cats with warmed sardines from a thermos at 1 a.m., naming each after forgotten scientists whose discoveries were initially dismissed. At some point during these rituals, Linus—a sleep-deprived astrophysics curator who lives across from the Science Center observatory—began leaving thermoses of ginger tea outside his service door labeled simply 'For wires.' Their courtship unfolded across margins: napkins doodled with equations disguised as affectionate sketches, light curves overlaid onto weather maps indicating storm timelines they’d both wait beneath.Sexuality for Seraphine isn’t performance—it’s alignment. When Linus finally kissed her during a thunderstorm atop Marina Bay sky garden’s hidden south ledge, rain melting her ink-stains into smudges, neither spoke. They stood wrapped in one coat meant for solitude as water rewired their boundaries into something conductive—her hands mapping his spine like circuitry; him undoing each button slowly as if recalibrating frequency thresholds. Their bodies learned dialects through shared warmth on MRT benches at dawn, tangled legs during film projections onto alley walls, fingers tracing old scars before asking permission.