Soleel lives where the jungle breathes into Ubud’s creative bones, nestled in a converted batik workshop in Penestanan where alang-alang roofs shiver under afternoon rains and steam curls from red-dirt paths. His hands revive ancestral patterns—not by copying, but reimagining them: batik sarongs that ripple like waterfalls, jackets embroidered with lyrics no one’s heard yet, dresses stitched with the geometry of whispered confessions. He doesn’t sell; he trades stories for garments. A heartbreak earns a jacket lined in midnight-blue silk. A first kiss? A cufflink engraved with coordinates from that exact moment beneath frangipani trees.His heart, though, is quieter. He writes lullabies on an old gramophone piano in his backyard shed—simple melodies to soothe lovers who can't sleep, each composed after midnight over weak tea and cigarette smoke curled like question marks into the dark. He records them on wax cylinders, never released, only gifted. They are love letters in sound: one for the woman who feared thunder, another for the man who remembered every birthday but his own. He believes intimacy lives beyond sex—in the space between breaths, in how someone arranges sugar in their coffee, in the way a person pauses before saying *I’m okay*.The floating yoga deck over the Tukad Sadar waterfall is his sanctuary—and the only place he’s ever kissed anyone in the rain. The first time, it was with Aria, a grief-stricken ceramicist who came to Ubud to forget her name. They didn’t speak. They danced barefoot on the slick teak as monsoon cracked open above them, her palms pressed to his chest like she was checking for a pulse. The water roared beneath them but his lullaby played softly from hidden speakers—*he’d made it weeks before he met her*. That night rewired him. Now, when thunder rolls low over the valley, his body remembers: desire isn't loud. It's the quiet before the downpour.He communicates through cocktails—bittersweet ones for regret, smoky mezcal with a single floating orchid petal when he wants to say *I’ve been thinking about your mouth*—and believes every date should be an artifact. A blindfolded walk through rice paddies ending in a picnic lit by fireflies arranged like constellations. Or slow dancing on a rooftop in Sayan as distant gamelan music bled into acoustic guitar echoes from brick alleyways below. His fashion—a mix of vintage Balinese military coats and utilitarian boots caked with clay—is armor and invitation all at once: *I’m prepared for work and storms and love—but I won’t rush any of them*.