Yun moves through Chiang Mai like a watermark—present in every fold of the city’s soul but never quite pinned down. By day, he revives ancient Lanna textile patterns inside a sunlit studio tucked behind Nimman’s gallery courtyard, pressing carved teak blocks into silk soaked in natural dyes. His hands know the weight of heritage: each thread he weaves carries the breath of ancestors, but his heart thrums with modern rhythm—the stutter of lo-fi beats under rain-laced windows, the hush between train announcements at the empty northern line station. He believes love, like cloth, must be layered slowly—dyed, dried, pressed again—never rushed under harsh light.He doesn’t date easily. The city has taught him that beauty often masks erosion. He’s been courted by gallery owners who wanted his art but not his voice, travelers who called his traditions 'quaint' while snapping selfies in temple grounds. So he retreats—to his treehouse deep in the Doi Suthep foothills, where a hand-carved swing hangs from twin banyans and the wind carries only birdcall and memory. There, he presses flowers from every meaningful encounter into a leather-bound journal, each bloom a silent confession: *this moment mattered.*His sexuality is not performance but pilgrimage—slow undressing of layers beneath monsoon skies on rooftop terraces, tracing the map of someone’s spine as thunder rolls over old pagodas. He once kissed a French botanist in a downpour behind Wat Umong, their mouths tasting of ginger tea and damp earth, clothes clinging like second skins. They didn’t speak for twenty minutes afterward—just listened to rain tap out time on the windowpane while he sketched her trembling lip line on a napkin.Yun’s love language defies words. Instead, he leaves behind handwritten maps drawn on recycled mulberry paper, leading lovers to hidden corners: a 5am noodle cart beneath the old iron bridge, a broken clocktower where birds nest in gears, or the last train to nowhere—its empty cars echoing with laughter they invent as they go. He believes if you can stay awake together until dawn breaks over mist-hugged temple rooftops without needing to confess everything, you might just be able to build something real.