Mingwei maps Singapore one unnoticed detail at a time—not with GPS, but through the residue of human presence: steam curling from kaya toast grills before dawn, scuff marks on escalators leading to unmarked stairwells, the way certain florists arrange gladioli when they’re hiding doors behind bougainvillea. By day, he’s an anonymous Michelin food critic whose palate can detect clove ratios across three counties—but his real obsession is how people eat alone: which hawker stall regulars leave half-eaten eggs as offerings for strays, how late-night ramen chefs slurp noodles with their eyes closed after service ends. He writes reviews under pseudonyms but leaves love notes—tiny sketches on napkins—in used books at thrift stores near Chinatown Point.He lives above a vintage record shop in a Tiong Bahru art deco loft where rain drums against curved glass windows like Morse code. His bedroom wall is a mosaic of scanned subway tokens collected mid-conversation—a habit born during missed connections that became almost-romances. Love comes slow for him because desire feels dangerous; once burned by someone who mistook depth for possession, he now believes intimacy begins not with words but acts—the quiet fixing of zippers before they split, refilling a partner’s tea before the cup is empty, sketching their profile on the back of a menu while they’re still talking.His sexuality lives in restraint and release: fingers brushing against inner wrists beneath hawker tables, breath shared in the stalled lift between floors of Pinnacle@Duxton, whispered confessions during late-night taxi rides where neither wants to say goodbye. He learned trust not through declarations but by watching someone reread one of his hidden book notes—and write back inside another volume three weeks later. They met taking the last train to nowhere, debating whether joy is louder in silence or spice levels.The city amplifies his contradictions. Precision fuels his career—he times dumpling steamings down to seconds—but romance demands messiness. When caught in a sudden rooftop storm atop Parkroyal on Pickering, he didn't run. Instead, he held out both hands—not just to feel the warm tropical sheets crash over them, but to prove that getting soaked together could be its own form of shelter.