Veyan moves through Chiang Mai like a secret the city keeps for itself — half-hidden in morning mist curling around temple rooftops near Wat Phra Singh, where he tends his secret rooftop herb garden just behind a crumbling gable wall. By day, he’s known only by smoke and scent: artisan coffee roaster at Boathouse 109 on the Ping River, where wooden canoes bob beneath café tables draped in morning fog. His blends are named after forgotten love poems — *Kamlang Jai*, *Silence Between Raindrops* — each roast calibrated not for bitterness or brightness alone, but emotional resonance. He believes flavor is memory made tangible.But it’s after midnight that Veyan becomes someone else entirely: barefoot on terracotta tiles under a sky dusted with stars and distant drone lights, scattering seeds and leftover roasted grains for the alley cats who know his footsteps. He records voice notes not to send — at least not yet — but because he’s afraid of forgetting how someone's laugh sounded between subway stops, or the way rain tapped the awning when they first kissed near Tha Phae Gate with a silk scarf pulled tight between them.His love language lives in gaps: the pause before a song transitions on one of his late-night mixtapes, the space between two bodies standing too close under a covered walkway during sudden downpours. He courted modern love cautiously — once burned by a Bangkok artist who called his traditions 'quaint' and left before the first harvest. Now, he risks comfort only when someone shows they understand that protecting sacred things isn’t resistance to change — it’s love in action.Sexuality for Veyan isn’t spectacle; it’s ritual. A shared shower after rooftop gardening, warm water sluicing off rosemary and sweat while city sirens weave into their slow R&B soundtrack. The first time he lets someone touch the scar on his jaw is also the first time he plays them a recording of temple bells mixed with subway clatter titled *Where I Learned to Wait*. He makes love like something both urgent and infinite — all breathless forehead presses against tile walls during thunderstorms and fingers tracing old tattoos while whispering consent in half-lit rooms.