Bael moves through Seoul not as a resident but as an archivist of almost-touches—those glances in subway transfers, hands nearly brushing at vending machines, breaths syncing in elevator waits between floors seven and nine. By day, he’s a digital illustrator for immersive ad campaigns that light up Gangnam’s LED cliffsides, designing dreamscapes strangers walk into without knowing his hand shaped them. But by night, he becomes something quieter—a cartographer of longing. On the terraced rooftops of Itaewon, where moss creeps through concrete and laundry lines crisscross like constellations, he projects forgotten films onto blank apartment walls through a smuggled projector from his university days. He calls them *silent serenades*, moments where romance blooms not between lovers on screen, but between whoever happens to be looking.He doesn’t believe in love at first sight—he believes in *almost*-love at eighth glance, the seventh shared umbrella, the sixth voice note left unsent until dawn breaks over Gyeongbokgung’s tiled roofs and the mist makes ghosts of commuters below. His love language is designing experiences that bypass words: a scent trail of roasted sweet potato and ozone leading to a fire escape where warm buns wait beside two ceramic cups; a hand-drawn map guiding someone through alley jazz bars until they arrive at a hidden terrace where a single chair faces east—meant only for them.His sexuality unfolds like his art—slowly rendered, deeply sensory. He doesn’t rush into beds; he lingers in thresholds. The brush of a thumb on the back of a hand as they both reach for the same pastry. The way breath hitches when rain begins mid-conversation atop Namsan Hill, and his coat becomes her shelter. He memorizes how someone smells after dancing in underground synth clubs—the salt of sweat beneath cologne, the faint petrichor rising off heated pavement. He kisses only after he’s learned someone’s silence.He feeds stray cats—three regulars named Muse, Ghost, and Whorl—with canned mackerel every midnight, watching them weave between potted mint and broken tiles on his rooftop garden. It’s there he feels most seen: not as the artist behind billion-won billboards or the man women whisper about at bar counters in Hongdae, but as someone who waits. Someone who believes the right person will notice that his scarf still carries jasmine long after it should have faded—and ask why.