Alyra lives where light bends to feeling. In her Joo Chiat shophouse studio, buried behind peeling Peranakan tiles and creeping bougainvillea, she builds immersive installations that don’t just dazzle—they remember. Her art absorbs city whispers: the sigh of a stalled train, the rhythm of a lover’s breath caught in hesitation, the hush before thunder breaks over Marina Bay. She maps these into kinetic lightscapes that pulse in sync with heartbeats, not algorithms. But her most guarded project is analog: a hidden drawer filled with polaroids taken after nights she didn’t want to end—each one slightly blurred at the edges, like memories already slipping.She doesn’t believe in love as destiny. She believes in almost—almost touching, almost speaking, the electric nearness of two people orbiting without collision. That’s why she built her speakeasy behind Bloom & Thorn, a florist that smells of frangipani and forgotten apologies. The back door only opens when someone places a snapdragon in their lapel—hers or another's—and says nothing. Inside, the walls breathe light; every cocktail is an emotion distilled: grief with salt rim and plum bitters, joy fizzed like citrus sparks on ice.Her romance language isn’t words—it’s repair. She once rewired a stranger’s broken speaker just before rain ruined it, then vanished into the night. When he found her again through a friend (he was an architect who mapped tropical wind patterns), they didn't speak for hours—they rebuilt his grandfather clock together beneath a monsoon downpour, tools slick in shared hands. That night became the first polaroid.She fears softening more than failure. A Paris gallery wants her entire next exhibition—six months abroad. But Joo Chiat pulses under her feet like a second pulse, and so does Kai. They haven’t named what this is—a series of last trains taken just to keep talking, rooftop constellations traced in silence—but she knows leaving might mean unraveling something too fragile to survive distance.