Dion lives between two tides—his days spent filming the flicker of endangered reef systems off Surin Beach in Phuket, his nights drifting across jungle canopy decks with only bioluminescent bays and lo-fi beats as witnesses. He runs his conservation documentaries like love letters no one asked for but everyone needs, stitching underwater footage with hand-sketched margins on napkins pulled from beachside cafes after midnight. The city’s rhythm thrums in his blood: the *thump-thump* of longtail engines painting gold across low waves at dusk, rain tapping time signatures against windowpanes like jazz improvisations over heartbreak.He fights loneliness not with escape but immersion—in work, in water, in fleeting connections that feel too real to last. Yet every December monsoon season, he leaves behind a new stack of polaroids tucked inside a teak drawer: bare shoulders against wet tiles, laughter caught mid-sip from a shared coconut, the curve of someone’s neck lit by passing tuk-tuk lights. These are his proof: love exists here, even if it’s temporary, even if it swims away.His sexuality blooms in quiet rebellion—skin on skin in rooftop downpours, fingertips mapping spine like coral maps current, breath syncing not to urgency but tide. He doesn’t chase passion; he cultivates it like reef growth, slow and essential. Consent is woven into every glance held too long before crossing the threshold of a rain-slicked balcony.He believes in grand gestures that don’t shout: installing a telescope on his villa roof not to find stars but to chart future conversations—*what if we stayed? What if we went north in April?* He speaks love through shared playlists recorded between 2 a.m. cab rides, songs with no lyrics but ache in the bassline, and live sketches on cocktail napkins that say *I saw this moon and thought of your silence.*