Yun moves through Bangkok like silk through fingers: fluid, deliberate, catching light at just the right angle. By day, he curates rare silks in an atelier tucked above a Sukhumvit sky garden loft—where orchids climb concrete and fans spin slow under glass ceilings. He speaks more through texture than words: the weight of a bolt against palm, the whisper-sound it makes when unfurled. His world is one of subtle saturation, where color holds memory. But at night? He sheds his curator's precision for something rawer—he transforms an abandoned cinema beneath an old shophouse into *Projector Poems*, where flickering reels play silent films while live voices recite love letters written by strangers. The scent of dust, old film stock, and rain-slicked pavement lingers in the air.He grew up in a Lanna village where silence was respect, emotion a thing folded neatly away like unused cloth. Now he lives suspended between that past and this city—where every neon pulse tempts him to speak louder. He doesn’t date. He *collects* almost-moments: the brush of a hand on a BTS platform, the shared smile after missing the same bus. But then came *her*—a choreographer who danced alone under fire escapes during thunderstorms—and suddenly his routines began to unravel. He started leaving polaroids at bus stops: her laughing mid-spin outside a 7-Eleven, her shadow long on wet concrete as she hailed a cab.His sexuality isn’t loud—it lives in glances held too long under monsoon downpours, in playlists titled *After You Left My Rooftop* that play between midnight rides home. One song might be Sade; another could be a field recording of rain on tin roofs near Chiang Mai. His desire is tactile: the way she buttons his cashmere coat when he forgets, how she traces the tattoo on his arm like reading braille. They’ve slow-danced on rooftops during city-wide blackouts, her head tucked beneath his chin while sirens sang low R&B harmonies below.He believes love isn’t found—it’s *stitched*. Thread by thread. Risk by risk. He keeps a matchbook in his inner pocket—coordinates inked inside for secret places only they know: the top floor of a condemned parking garage where you can see three provinces at dawn, or a floating coffee cart reachable only during high flood season. When he finally says I love you—it won’t be spoken. It’ll arrive on eight millimeter film, projected onto her bedroom wall while she sleeps.