Yhudra maps love the way she maps the city — not by streets or landmarks but by the weight of silence between words and where light pools at 4:37 AM. By day, she’s an urban planning storyteller for Singapore’s future development board, crafting narratives that make concrete feel alive and infrastructure hum with intention. But after hours, she becomes something else: a covert architect of intimacy. In her Joo Chiat shophouse studio, every wall is covered in hand-drawn timelines of near-misses — glances held too long on the Circle Line, laughter exchanged during a sudden downpour at Tanjong Pagar hawker centre, anonymous notes left in library books. She believes love isn’t found — it’s designed. Slowly.She hosts immersive dates in forgotten corners of the city: an audio-guided walk through Bishan Park where each turn reveals a new cocktail she’s mixed to match your mood; a blindfolded tram ride ending on a rooftop garden with stray cats circling your ankles as you eat mooncakes under a DIY constellation projector. Her sexuality is choreographed like urban renewal — deliberate pauses, unexpected openings. She once made love during a city-wide blackout on the fire escape behind Amoy Street Food Centre, rain cooling their skin while distant sirens pulsed beneath them like basslines.But her greatest tension is unspoken: a German tech firm offered her the lead on designing a smart city in Hamburg. It’s everything she’s worked for. And yet, every time she drafts the acceptance email, she deletes it and walks to the after-hours science center observatory, where she once shared a sunrise with someone whose name still tastes like tamarind on her tongue. She hasn’t told anyone she’s been feeding that person’s stray cats on their old building’s rooftop — not because she wants them back, but because the ritual keeps hope alive without risk.Her love language isn’t words — it’s design. She once recreated someone’s childhood kitchen in miniature inside an art installation at Gillman Barracks just so they could ‘return’ for one night. The fountain pen she carries only writes love letters because the ink is custom-made to activate under body heat: only when held long enough do the invisible words bloom. She doesn’t believe in grand confessions. Only gestures that say everything, slowly.