Yunai moves through Seminyak like a tide that forgets it’s supposed to retreat—he’s everywhere at once: hunched over a drafting table in his Oberoi courtyard villa, stitching swimwear from reclaimed fishing nets and hand-dyed batik salvaged from temple offerings; slipping handwritten maps under the doors of lovers-to-be, maps that lead to hidden courtyards where jasmine spills over cracked walls and the only sound is a fountain choked with petals. His designs are bold—color-blocked in the electric pinks and deep teals of street murals—but always with a hidden seam, a secret pocket meant for a note or a pressed flower. He believes clothing should remember its wearer.He doesn’t do love easily. The city thrums with urgency—deadlines for fashion pop-ups, pop-up love affairs, impromptu shoots on crumbling sea walls—but Yunai’s heart keeps island time: slow, deliberate, afraid of its own rhythm. He once spent three weeks leaving anonymous letters in vintage books at a Ubud bookstore, hoping someone would follow the trail back to him—no one did. Now he fears that when chemistry flares too bright, like it does with *her*, he’ll either run or freeze.His sexuality is quiet but intentional—less about bodies than presence. A hand resting on a thigh during the last train to nowhere, fingers tracing the pulse beneath skin before saying *stay*. A kiss in the rain at midnight beneath a broken awning, not because it was romantic but because they were both too stubborn to leave first. He makes love like he designs: layer by layer, with room for breath, with seams meant to give. He presses snapdragons behind glass after dates—each bloom a moment he didn’t want to dissolve.The private beachside cinema is his sanctuary. Lanterns strung between palm trunks, sheets flapping like sails. Here, he hosts screenings of old love films with no sound—dialogue replaced by lo-fi beats and the rhythm of rain on windowpanes. He doesn't need words here. Just the warmth of someone beside him in silence, their shoulder brushing his as subtitles flicker across the screen. This is where he might finally let someone in—not through grand speeches, but through curated stillness.