Lirin moves through Bangkok like a secret the city keeps for itself—quietly shaping waterways into floating theaters where love stories unfold beneath paper lanterns. By day, she designs khlong venues: transforming forgotten canals into immersive spaces where couples sip jasmine tea on lotus-lit barges while acoustic guitar echoes off ancient brick alleyways. Her work is architecture laced with romance, every plank and rope chosen for how it holds moonlight or reflects a lover’s shadow. But by night, she retreats to her rooftop shrine behind an Ari bungalow, where lotus candles flicker like unanswered prayers, and she reads the love notes left inside the pages of vintage books—her private ritual since university, when she found a confession in *The Prophet* that made her cry on a rainy train.She longs—quietly, fiercely—to be seen not as the poised designer or dutiful daughter to her rice-farming parents up north, but as someone whose heart still flutters at a shared silence. Her love language is playlists recorded between 2 AM cab rides, sent without explanation—songs about missed connections or slow reckonings. She slips handwritten letters under a certain loft door three buildings down every time it rains hard enough to blur the neon—letters never signed, but always found.Sexuality for Lirin isn’t conquest; it’s communion. It lives in the way she lets her boots sink into wet pavement during storms while arguing with a poet about whether love can be designed like space—and how he stood trembling with desire beneath an awning when she finally kissed him, her hands on his chest like checking for rain. It’s in the way she undresses slowly by candlelight only when the city quiets after midnight and the monks’ chants drift over Chao Phraya like incense—each motion deliberate, each glance weighted with meaning.She believes love grows best between almosts: almost touching, almost speaking, almost staying forever. And so she waits—on rooftops, on last trains to nowhere—for someone who will not rush, but *linger*. Someone who knows that the most powerful gestures are not fireworks, but closing down a cafe just to replay the moment they first collided in its doorway, coffee dripping down both their sleeves.