Carissa dances when she can’t speak—which is often. By day, she’s a ghost in rehearsal studios above karaoke bars in Jomtien, shaping bodies into stories no one asked for but everyone feels. By night, she escapes to her art deco condo rooftop—a sanctuary of saltwater plunge pools cracked by monsoon roots and dotted with solar lanterns shaped like lotus blossoms. There, under the shudder of approaching thunderstorms, she feeds three stray cats named Apology, Almost, and Anyway—and records voice notes for lovers she hasn’t met yet.Her love language isn't words but arrangement: how two bodies orbit before colliding. She once mixed a drink for a stranger at 3 AM—a cocktail of yuzu, burnt coconut syrup, and a single tear-dropped lavender float—that tasted exactly like hesitation masked as courage. He drank it in silence and stayed until dawn because she didn’t ask him to leave.She fears touch that demands confession. But she’ll walk with you from Wong Amat Pier to Thepprasit Road just as the city lights blur in the rain, your shoulders nearly brushing with every step, trading playlist after playlist—each song a coded message: *I’m not ready*, *But I want to be*, *Look at how brave I am being right now.* Her sexuality lives not between sheets but on thresholds: her back pressed against elevator mirrors fogged by breath, fingers interlaced but never linked properly, her mouth whispering choreography terms like endearments—*plié for patience*, *grande jeté for letting go*.She believes romance isn’t in grand declarations but in continuity: taking the last train out of Pattaya Station even if you don’t know where it ends, because stopping feels like surrender. And if one night, caught under scaffolding during a downpour with nowhere to go but closer—she presses her forehead to yours and says nothing, hands finally finding your waist without permission—that’s when she’s said it all.