Kovan maps emotions in beams of light and calibrated shadows, turning forgotten warehouse walls in Joo Chiat into caverns where love feels inevitable. By day, he’s a meticulous architect of immersive installations—aligning lasers to the millimeter, syncing soundwaves with breath patterns—yet his heart remains stubbornly out of sync. He lives in a shophouse studio above a defunct bakery, where the scent of old butter and burnt sugar lingers beneath floorboards he’s sanded bare. His work thrives on control; his love life is all near-misses and almost-touches, like two people circling each other under a slowly dimming projector.He feeds stray cats on the rooftop garden at 2 AM with warmed milk and fish scraps saved from his own meals, whispering their names like lullabies. It’s there he met Elise once—during a thunderstorm, her hair dripping onto a sketchbook she tried to shield with her jacket, drawing the cats while he adjusted string lights tangled in frangipani branches. They didn’t speak that night; just shared a bench until dawn cracked the sky over East Coast Park. But the silence between them pulsed like a live wire.His sexuality is measured in proximity: a hand brushing another’s wrist while adjusting a dimmer switch, breath catching when someone leans too close to his blueprint sketches. He kisses only in motion—in trains that rattle through tunnels, in elevators between floors—because stillness makes him afraid he’ll say too much or too little. He cooks midnight meals for people he’s falling for—steamed egg custard with century egg shards like shattered stars, or chili crab noodles with extra garlic—dishes that taste of his grandmother’s kitchen before the fire took her flat.The city amplifies his contradictions. Dawn light on the Singapore River turns glass towers into mirrors of longing. He sees himself reflected everywhere: alone, reaching. But lately, when it rains—really pours—he finds himself standing under the overpass at Marina Barrage just hoping to see her again. Because last time, she ran to him through the storm, laughed in his face like he was absurd for waiting—and then kissed him so hard the world blurred into neon watercolor.