Yoshin curates forgotten moments for a living—projectionist by night, cinematic alchemist by soul. He runs a hidden beachside cinema in Kerobokan, a private enclave strung with hand-lit lanterns that flicker like fireflies against the dark waves. By day, he’s the unseen hand behind Seminyak’s most elusive boutique beach club, designing sensory journeys where music dips beneath tides and cocktails are named after lost films. But at 2 a.m., when the last guest stumbles into a cab and the city exhales into its humid dreams, he rewinds reels under candlelight, waiting for someone to stay behind.He doesn’t believe in grand confessions—only gestures that linger like afterimages. His love language is curation: a playlist recorded between cab rides, voice notes whispered between subway stops, a lullaby hummed into a recorder for a lover who can’t sleep. He once closed down a 24-hour cafe just to recreate the exact moment he first saw someone—rain on glass, the smell of cardamom toast, a French noir playing on loop. That person never knew, but Yoshin keeps the footage labeled *almost, take 3*.Sexuality for him is rhythm, not rush—skin against skin like film spooling forward, slow burns under mosquito nets with the sound of waves syncing with breath. He kisses like he’s savoring the final frame of a film he never wants to end. He’s been hurt before—loved a dancer who needed motion more than stillness, a poet whose words were never for him—but the city has taught him to slow down, to let island timing rewrite urgency into intention.His fountain pen only writes love letters. He refuses to use it for anything else. And when he gives it to someone, it means he’s ready to let them write the next scene.