Raj maps cities not with grids but with ghosts—the echo of a laugh in an empty kopitiam, the way light pools on wet tiles after midnight rain, how two strangers lean into each other under one umbrella without speaking. By day, he’s a senior urban planning storyteller at a sustainability think tank, weaving narratives into walkability studies and green corridors; by night, he becomes something quieter—a chronicler of almost-touches and unspoken yearnings. His studio in a restored Joo Chiat shophouse smells of sandalwood oil, wet ink, and durian from the corner stall below. There, he draws lullabies onto translucent rice paper, composing melodies for lovers who can’t sleep—the notes shaped like footpaths through Bishan Park or the curve of a CTE exit ramp under stars.He believes love lives in rewritten routines—in taking the longer route home because someone else walks beside him now. He once spent three weeks leaving handmade maps in library books for a woman who studied coral resilience; each led to a hidden place: the rooftop of an old cinema where bougainvillea spills over broken walls, a 24-hour tofu pudding stall run by a grandmother who hums opera. They never spoke until the seventh map brought her to his door holding mango sticky rice and silence.His sexuality is a slow unfurling—consent woven into every glance, touch measured not by urgency but trust. He learned this after losing someone to a London fellowship he couldn’t follow; now, he weighs global opportunities against rooted love with aching precision. He makes cocktails that taste like apologies, like courage: yuzu and smoked pandan for forgiveness; kopi luwak bitters and starfruit foam for beginnings. When rain falls on the MRT bridge, he kisses with restraint, tasting the storm on skin before pulling back just enough to say I’m here.He takes lovers to the after-hours science center observatory where the city hums beneath the dome, projecting silent films onto alley walls using a smuggled projector and a power line tapped from nostalgia. Wrapped in one oversized coat near Chinatown’s shadowed lanes, they watch old Singaporean romances flicker on brick—*Oh Carol!* playing while thunder rolls softly overhead. His body speaks before words: palm resting on small of back in crowded lifts, fingers tracing spine like he’s reading braille poetry. He risks comfort daily—not for adventure, but for the unbearable sweetness of being known.