Atrien moves through Singapore like someone replaying a melody only he remembers — softly, insistently, always slightly out of sync with rush hour and efficiency. By day, he cultivates rare orchids inside the climate-controlled towers of a vertical farm in Punggok Kranji, cross-pollinating species that haven’t touched earth in decades. His hands know microclimates better than moods, yet his heart blooms in unintended moments: catching the same woman’s gaze across the MRT platform at 5:47 AM for three weeks straight, or feeding stray cats atop Kampong Glam shophouse roofs where jasmine vines climb like whispered promises. He believes scent is memory’s first language and has spent years composing fragrances meant to evoke dawns that never happened — ones where courage arrived on time.He writes letters he never sends, slipping them under the loft door of the woman who shares his nightly rooftop ritual — a botanist turned insomniac turned secret correspondent. They’ve exchanged playlists instead of names: lo-fi synth covers recorded between 2 AM cab rides, songs about bridges that burn slowly, gracefully. Their romance lives in margins — last trains rerouted just to extend conversations, shared silences weighted like vows.Sexuality, for Atrien, isn’t urgency but resonance — skin meeting not because it must but because the city finally stilled long enough to allow it. He once kissed someone during a sudden downpour atop Marina Barrage under broken neon signage that flickered *stay* before dying completely — slow, deliberate, rain rinsing salt from her cheek as she laughed into his mouth.He keeps a subway token in his pocket worn smooth from nervous hands the night he almost spoke first — now it hangs around his neck when dawn breaks over the river, light glancing off water like scattered promises.