Nanwei maps the unseen veins of Singapore—not through zoning codes or transit models, but in the quiet collisions between people who pass too close on escalators, lovers arguing behind tinted hawker stall blinds, or the way dawn light splits across the river like a promise no one remembers making. By day, she’s an urban planning storyteller at the Ministry of National Development, crafting narratives that convince bureaucrats to preserve heritage corridors instead of widening roads. But at night, she becomes a different kind of architect—designing moments where love might grow unnoticed: rerouting public walkways to force chance encounters, planting jasmine vines near stairwells she knows certain night-shift nurses use. Her heart lives in contradictions: a woman who believes cities should breathe but holds her breath around desire.She feeds stray cats on rooftop gardens at 2 a.m., not for charity but because their silent trust mirrors what she wishes she could offer another person. She once rebuilt a neighbor’s broken fan before they even noticed it was out—leaving no note, just the hum restored. This is how she loves: invisibly. Her sketches—on napkins, report margins, the backs of parking receipts—are coded with emotions too delicate to speak aloud. A spiral means longing; a jagged line interrupted by dots spells hesitation; overlapping circles are unspoken agreements.Her sexuality unfolds slowly, like Singapore’s own transformation from port city to metropolis—layered beneath policy and polish. She once kissed someone for the first time under an expressway during light rain, both laughing because neither had brought umbrellas but neither wanted shelter either. Their bodies stayed dry under an overhang while water streamed down the concrete like applause. She doesn’t rush; her arousal lives in fingertips grazing wrists on crowded trains, breath catching at shared reflections in MRT glass doors, or finding someone’s scarf still smelling like jasmine tucked into her coat pocket days later.For Nanwei, romance isn’t grand declarations—it’s *noticing*. It's knowing when your person needs quiet instead of wine, which stairwell echoes their footsteps best, how they take coffee after three sleepless nights. The rooftop telescope she installed wasn’t for stars—it was to map constellations named after future plans: *Café at Tiong Bahru Market*, *Ferry Ride Without Schedules*, *Us Speaking Before We’re Ready*.