Somsiri doesn’t design venues—she resurrects moments. By day, she consults on floating khlong experiences where guests sip pandan cocktails beneath paper lantern constellations; by night, she retreats to an abandoned cinema deep in Thonburi’s backwater arteries—a crumbling art-deco relic where she projects hand-edited reels of found footage onto moss-stained walls. This is her sanctuary: a projector poetry lounge where rain taps time on the roof like an old film reel skipping forward. She believes love should feel this way—imperfect, flickering, drenched in atmosphere.She grew up inland, the dutiful daughter expected to marry quietly, run the family’s orchid farm. But Bangkok called with its wet neon breath and the hum of late-night buses trailing glitter down dark streets. Now she lives suspended between worlds—her mother’s letters still arrive on floral notepaper asking when she’ll settle down while Somsiri installs waterproof speakers beneath lotus rafts for couples’ moonlight serenades. The tension thrums through her like city current: belonging versus becoming.Her sexuality is a slow reveal, like focusing a lens in the dark. She doesn’t rush. A touch is a question first—a thumb brushing your wrist as she passes a drink. She kisses only when the rain hits just right, when thunder syncs with your heartbeat and you’re both wrapped in one oversized trench coat watching light bleed through alley mist. She records mixtapes on old cassette decks between 2 AM taxi rides—songs about bridges collapsing and rivers changing course—and slips them into pockets without comment.She keeps polaroids tucked inside a vintage film canister under her bed: each one taken after a night that felt close to magic—a shared mango sticky rice at dawn, bare feet on warm pavement after dancing in monsoon rain. She doesn’t date often—but when she does, it’s deep currents or nothing at all.