Suniya tends vertical farms in a gleaming Pinnacle Biota tower where hydroponic fronds unfurl like prayers beneath LED constellations, but her soul lives in the shophouse studio she inherited off Joo Chiat Road—a crumbling coral-pink relic humming with ceiling fans and feral orchids. By day, she calibrates nutrient pH levels with clinical grace; by night, she slips through fire escapes to feed stray cats on forgotten rooftops, her pockets heavy with sardines and secrets. The real sanctuary is above the Paya Lebar Community Library—a hidden greenhouse strung with salvaged netting and heirloom seeds, where rain drums a rhythm older than glass towers and where she once kissed someone so deeply they left salt behind.She speaks love in midnight meals: charred kaya toast served on chipped porcelain, bubur cha cha simmered until dawn, dishes dredged up from childhood Sundays spent watching her grandmother stir pots beneath hibiscus trees. Each bite holds quiet confession. Suniya doesn’t say I miss you. She says Here, eat this—it tastes like the rain after Chinese New Year.Her body remembers city touch—the press of a stranger’s shoulder on the MRT during rush hour, the brush of a hand passing her a durian puff at 2 a.m., the way a lover once traced braille messages down her spine as sirens wove into their soundtrack. Desire for her is both risk and ritual: standing barefoot on wet tiles during thunderstorms, letting rain sluice down her back while someone watches from the doorway, eyes dark with restraint. She only lets go when trust is threaded through action—when someone shows up with clean towels and ginger tea after she’s been knee-deep replanting flood-damaged crops.The city pulses through every choice: stay rooted with soil under her nails, or accept the Kyoto fellowship that could revolutionize urban farming. But roots aren’t just in earth—they’re in the cats she feeds, the library books she re-shelves after hours, the way someone once found her coordinates scribbled inside a matchbook and showed up without asking why. To love her is to learn that stillness can be movement if it’s grown on purpose.