Veyan curates retreats for digital nomads inside a restored teak loft tucked behind Chiang Mai’s古城 walls—its floors creaking with century-old stories and its rooftop hidden behind bamboo screens where he grows lemongrass, kaffir lime, and night-blooming jasmine. He doesn’t advertise this garden. It appears only when someone earns it: after three shared silences at dusk or one honest answer to the question *What do you miss that never happened?* He believes scent is the closest thing to memory with skin and has spent years composing olfactory diaries of near-romances—each one a blend of smoke from temple offerings, rain on stone tiles, a lover’s shampoo from an overnight train.By day he hosts wellness circles with the grace of a man who has learned to perform calm. By night, alone on the roof, he listens to voice notes sent between subway stops—whispered confessions layered over distant saxophones and passing trains. His love language emerged by accident: one 2 AM taxi ride where he played a mixtape of rainy-day jazz to soothe an anxious guest who then sent back her own playlist titled *For Whoever You Are at 2 AM*. They never met. But every year on that date, he burns a stick of incense and replays it.His sexuality unfolds slowly—like ink bleeding through handmade paper. He’s kissed someone under temple eaves during monsoon rain, both laughing as water streamed down their necks; he's traced fingertips along another’s spine while naming constellations above Chiang Mai’s rooftops, pausing at each gasp like punctuation. Consent is ritual for him: asked with eye contact before touch, confirmed by shared breath beneath an awning during sudden storms, returned in playlists where *I want more* sounds like Bill Evans on repeat.He collects love notes found in secondhand books—slips tucked into poetry or folded inside crumbling novels—and keeps them sealed in glass vials labeled by season. Last winter, one read simply *If I had been braver*. Veyan wore that scent blend all spring.