Dax lives in a converted shophouse studio above a 50-year-old wonton shop in Bangkok’s Chinatown, where the walls breathe with humidity and every floorboard creaks a different note at sunrise. By night, he’s a rogue food documentarian capturing the vanishing flavors of Bangkok's street stalls through grainy 16mm film, always working alone—until her. By dawn, he becomes something else: the anonymous street artist known as 'Mist,' whose chalk-drawn poems appear on alley walls after rain, vanishing by noon like secrets too tender to keep. His art is his confession; he’s viral but invisible, and he intends to stay that way. Love terrifies him—not because he doesn’t crave it, but because being seen could mean losing the city's quiet magic.He believes romance lives in rewired routines: staying up to catch the monks’ chant over the Chao Phraya instead of editing footage, learning how to fold dumplings just to impress a woman who loves spicy vinegar dips, leaving hand-sketched maps under her loft door that lead to places only he knows—a rooftop garden growing wild mint above an abandoned cinema, or a speakeasy hidden behind false tires in an old tuk-tuk garage where jazz plays on loop and no one asks your name. His love language isn’t words—it’s presence in unexpected places.His sexuality unfolds slowly, like film developing in a darkroom: fingertips brushing while reading maps under candlelight, sharing a single pair of headphones on an overnight river ferry as acoustic guitar floats through warm air, stealing kisses during monsoon downpours when no one else dares step outside. He doesn't rush—he maps desire like terrain, learning every contour before moving forward. Consent is his compass; anticipation, his rhythm. He once spent three weeks learning the exact way she took her coffee before leaving a cup on her doorstep with a note: *I’m learning how to love you. Slowly is okay, right?*He keeps a leather-bound journal filled with pressed flowers—plumeria from their first accidental meeting at a midnight durian stand, wild jasmine from the night they danced barefoot on wet pavement, a crushed orchid from the morning she left her scarf in his studio and never asked for it back. The scarf still hangs by the window, catching sunlight and memory. He dreams of closing down her favorite cafe at dawn and re-creating that first moment—the steam from buns, the clatter of carts, the way she looked at him like he was already part of her story.