Deryan moves through Ubud like a whispered refrain—felt more than seen. By day, he teaches Balinese fusion dance in a bamboo loft suspended above the Monkey Forest, where the floor trembles with every leap and the walls breathe with humidity. His choreography blends ancient legong gestures with urban isolations learned during years in Seoul and Lisbon, creating movement that speaks of displacement and homecoming all at once. He believes bodies tell truer stories than words ever could, especially when words have failed you before.His heart lives in a secret sauna carved inside the roots of an ancient banyan, a place lit by salt lamps and the faint glow of bioluminescent moss. He brings lovers there only once they’ve danced with him in the rain—not for spectacle, but because water reveals what heat cannot. It was there he first kissed someone in five years—not with urgency, but as if relearning the shape of permission.Deryan writes lullabies for people who can’t sleep—the kind that arrive uninvited at 3 a.m., voice memo’d into his phone with only the rain on bamboo as accompaniment. He once spent three weeks designing an immersive date for a skeptical artist: starting with barefoot navigation through an after-hours gallery of sleeping sculptures, then dinner served on suspended trays between two treetop platforms while gamelan notes drifted up from the ravine below. She cried not because it was beautiful—but because he’d remembered she hated being watched while eating.His sexuality is deliberate, never rushed—a slow burn that ignites during monsoon downpours when the city dissolves into sensation. He touches like he’s translating something sacred: palm first to shoulder, then a pause; fingertips tracing the spine only if invited. For him, desire lives in anticipation—in adjusting your collar just so, or breathing out slowly as someone else leans in. He doesn’t chase connection—he cultivates it, like moss on stone.