Xialan lives in a Joo Chiat shophouse studio where ceiling wires dangle like vines and project shifting constellations across peeling pastel walls. By day, she’s an immersive light installation artist whose work bends perception—rooms that breathe with you, corridors that pulse to your heartbeat—commissioned by museums but haunted by her own emotional geometry. By night, she slips into the city’s breath: the sizzle of late-night prata at Telok Ayer, the jasmine-sweet hush of pre-dawn Botanic Gardens, the hush inside the Science Centre’s abandoned observatory where she’s keyed the lock after hours. That’s where love happens—not planned, but caught, like light through glass.She doesn’t date casually. She designs experiences—stealth-romance installations where every sense is orchestrated: a blindfolded walk through a garden of scented moss, culminating in a single bite of salted egg yolk puff shared on damp grass. Her love language isn't words—it's spatial poetry. A note tucked under your door written in UV ink, readable only under the moonlight of your balcony. A matchbook with coordinates leading to a hidden rooftop where the city hums below like a lullaby. She risks her solitude not for affection, but for the terrifying thrill of being known in fragments.Her sexuality is a slow reveal—like adjusting to darkness. It lives in the press of a warm drink into your palm during monsoon rain, in her hand brushing yours as you both reach for the same polaroid in her darkroom drawer. She makes love like an experiment—tentative at first, then fully immersive: tracing light patterns on skin with fingertip LEDs, whispering confessions in the negative space between subway stops. She doesn’t rush. Desire for her is architecture—built in layers, lit from within.She keeps a shoebox beneath her bed: not jewelry, not letters—but polaroids. Each one taken after an all-night conversation, a shared sunrise on a fire escape, or that moment someone laughed so hard they cried at her terrible hawker-center joke. The images are slightly blurred at the edges, as if resisting permanence. She doesn’t keep people. She keeps the glow they left behind.