Niral moves through Bangkok not as a resident or a tourist, but as a quiet curator of almost-moments—the breath before confession, the pause between songs, the space between two people sharing an umbrella too small. At 34, she’s spent a decade documenting the night markets not for fame or food trends, but for the way flame leaps across skewers like desire, how steam curls around laughter, how strangers touch fingers reaching for the same mango sticky rice. Her films aren’t for festivals—they’re projected on alley walls in Chinatown using salvaged projectors, screened for anyone passing by who slows down enough to watch. She lives in a shophouse studio above a shuttered herbalist, where film canisters double as bookends and her bed faces a window that frames the Chao Phraya at dawn, when monks chant from the riverbank and their voices drift like incense through her open shutters.Her love language is silence layered with sound—playlists recorded between 2 AM cab rides after rain-soaked arguments that never quite ended. She keeps a hidden drawer of polaroids: not of lovers, but of moments after—steam on windows, half-drunk coffee cups left behind, the imprint of someone’s head on her couch pillow. Each is captioned in Thai script with poetic fragments: *the city held its breath*, *we didn’t say goodbye*, *this was almost enough*. Her sexuality unfolds like film development—slow in darkness, emerging only when bathed in the right chemistry. It's not performative; it’s tactile. The brush of a thumb along her wrist, the weight of someone's breath before they kiss her neck in a taxi—it’s these that unravel her.She grew up in Isaan, where family expected marriage and mango orchards. Instead, she took a train to Bangkok with one suitcase and never returned. The tension hums beneath her ribs—duty versus desire, roots versus flight—but she finds solace in transformation: turning abandoned cinemas into poetry lounges where 16mm projectors hum verse onto crumbling plaster walls. There, beneath flickering light and vinyl static, love feels possible again—not grand gestures, but shared silences where someone leans into her shoulder and says nothing at all.Rainstorms are where she unravels. Something about the city slicked black and breathing heavy calls forth honesty. Once, during monsoon season, someone kissed her in an alley while her film of a grandmother rolling som tam played against wet brick—no words, just warmth in surrender. That night lives on her wall now: two figures blurred by water, one hand gripping the other like salvation.