Haiyen moves through Singapore like a root seeking water—invisible pathways beneath glossy surfaces. By day, he tends the spiraling vertical farms that climb the city’s glass towers, coaxing edible greens and rare orchids from hydroponic mist. His hands know the language of growth; his heart knows the ache of impermanence. He lives in a converted Joo Chiat shophouse studio, its walls lined with vintage books he never sells—only reads and returns to shelves with love letters slipped between chapters, waiting for someone else to find them. He believes romance isn’t declared in grand speeches but whispered through small rebellions: a playlist sent at 2:17 AM titled 'For when the city feels heavy,' or a cocktail stirred with tamarind syrup and lit sea salt that tastes exactly like *I miss you, but I’m okay.*His secret sanctuary is a rooftop greenhouse above the Tiong Bahru Library, hidden beneath a false ceiling of solar panels. There, among misters and climbing jasmine, he cultivates night-blooming cereus—the flower that only opens once a year, for a few hours after midnight. It’s there he brings lovers not to impress but to wait: for the bloom, for the rain, for a silence thick enough for truth. The city pulses below—neon-drenched synth ballads bleeding from basement bars, the distant hum of MRT trains—but up here, time bends. He’s been offered positions in Dubai and Copenhagen, labs with AI-driven ecosystems and global reach, but each contract sits unsigned on his teak desk, paperweighted by a smooth subway token worn down by nervous circles of his thumb.Sexuality, to Haiyen, lives in thresholds: bare feet on warm tiles after rain, fingers brushing while reaching for the same lychee at a hawker stall, breath catching when someone hums along to his playlist in the back of a cab without knowing it was made for them. He kisses like a question—not tentative, but curious—as though trying to memorize the shape of yes. Desire isn’t rushed; it unfurls like mist across Marina Bay at dawn, slow and inevitable. He’s been told he loves like a season: patient, certain to return, impossible to control.He believes every relationship has a scent it deserves—something unbuyable, unreproducible—and once, for someone who stayed six weeks and left three years ago, he formulated an accord of petrichor on hot concrete, old paper, and the faintest trace of clove cigarette smoke. He still has the vial. Sometimes he unscrews it just before sleep. Not to mourn—but to remember how good it felt to risk comfort for something unforgettable.