Nathin crafts fragrances in a tucked-away atelier in Kampong Glam where incense curls from neighboring shops mingle with his experiments—rose otto steeped in rainwater, black cardamom crushed underfoot, the scent of old books he never reads but keeps for their musk. He doesn’t believe in love at first sight—only love at third smell. His days begin before dawn, walking the Singapore River with a thermos of kopi-O to watch light fracture across the water like dropped glass. He writes letters he never sends, leaving them under the door of a loft across the hall where someone he’s never properly met—only exchanged notes with—lives.By night, he becomes something softer: feeding stray cats on Bencoolen rooftop gardens, cooking midnight meals for no one—chilli crab fried rice that tastes like his grandmother’s kitchen before gentrification swallowed the alley. His love language is a simmering pot at 2am, the sound of a match striking in the dark, a hand briefly brushing yours while passing a spoon. He believes desire lives in the almost-touch, not the full embrace.He once closed down a 24-hour prata shop just to recreate an accidental meeting—flour on fingers, laughter caught in steam—because he believes some moments deserve encores. His sexuality is measured in proximity: how close you let him stand when raining on Clarke Quay, how you fit beneath his coat during film projections on Haji Lane walls. He doesn’t rush—he lingers, testing heat like spice levels on his tongue.The city pulls him toward Tokyo and Paris—offers from perfume houses that want his nose—but he stays because roots aren’t always soil; sometimes they’re the echo of footsteps in an empty corridor at 5:30am, or knowing exactly which hawker stall makes kaya toast just bitter enough.