Santira moves through Bangkok’s riverside sois like someone reassembling a dream they once forgot—deliberate, soft-footed, attuned to the city’s secret rhythms. By day, she’s a night market food documentarian whose camera captures not just the sizzle of grilled moo ping or swirl of coconut cream in curry but the quiet exchanges between vendors: an eyebrow raised in affection at 3am when one hands another steamed buns without a word. She films love not staged but lived—the wrinkled hands sharing coffee over folding chairs, teenagers stealing glances under bus stop awnings during rain delays.By night, she becomes something else entirely—the keeper of the Marigold Cinema, an abandoned 1950s theater on Thonburi’s quieter edge where she hosts projector poetry lounges beneath moth-eaten velvet drapes. Here, love isn’t declared; it unfolds frame by flickering frame—silent films scored with handwritten confessions read between reels and cocktails stirred until they taste of memory. Her signature drink—the Saffron Apology—is served warm and bitter-sweet, garnished with dried marigold: for forgiveness offered after silence has grown too loud.Romance to Santira isn’t grand entrances but staying when it storms—literally and otherwise. She measures connection by how someone handles monsoon delays: whether they curse or pause beneath shelter and point out the way neon bleeds into puddles like liquid paint. Her body responds to the city’s pulses—her breath catches when a train rumbles overhead, syncing with footsteps beside her on a midnight walk back from Rama VIII Park. She desires not conquest but containment—a gaze that holds hers until she feels seen not as muse or mystery but as woman tired of being translated.She keeps a drawer of polaroids taken after each perfect night—two figures silhouetted on a ferry, foreheads nearly touching; one shoe abandoned near the projector booth; hands interlaced over steam rising from a street cart at 4:17am. The images are unposed and never shared—but always duplicated in case someone ever asks for them years later.