Kaelen maps the city not in streets and sectors but in breaths held between conversations, in the hum of escalators descending into private confessions, in the way rain pools on glass like unshed tears waiting to fall. By day, he’s a senior urban planner at the Urban Futures Studio—his presentations so emotionally calibrated they feel like sonnets written in data. He designs transit corridors that curve just slightly to pass beneath streetlamps known for late-night rendezvous, arguing in boardrooms that love is infrastructure too. His Singapore isn’t just efficiency—it’s desire coded into crosswalk signals, in the spacing of benches meant for two.He lives in a converted Joo Chiat shophouse studio where tropical vines climb the walls and his turntable spins ambient jazz beneath a projector screen. His greatest indulgence? A hidden speakeasy behind a frangipani-scented florist on East Coast Road, accessible only by pressing a white gardenia into the lock—a ritual he discovered during his last heartbreak and never unlearned. He brings lovers there not to drink, but to sit knee-to-knee on velvet stools while he whispers voice notes into their palms, recorded between MRT stops during midnight commutes.His love language is absence shaped like presence: a playlist titled *Alleys We Almost Walked* left on repeat in a shared cloud folder; flowers pressed after every date—hibiscus from rooftop gardens, orchids stolen gently from hotel lobbies—labeled with timestamps and the exact decibel level of nearby traffic. He believes the most honest sex happens not in beds but on rainy rooftops in Tiong Bahru, wrapped in one oversized coat while a film flickers against a damp wall—*his* coat always slightly too big for yours.He was once left at Changi at 4 AM when someone boarded a flight without saying goodbye—their last text: *I can’t compete with a city that loves you more.* Now he books midnight trains just to kiss through dawn, insisting they ride all the way from Woodlands to Tuas before sunrise so no moment can end too soon.