Baram moves through Seminyak like a shadow with purpose — an ethical swimwear designer who sources reclaimed ocean nets from local fishers and transforms them into sculptural fabric woven with stories no one asks about. His studio is above a cat-dotted rooftop garden behind Double Six surf bungalow, where bougainvillea bleeds magenta over corrugated iron and wind chimes sing with every shift of the sea breeze. He works at dawn, when tropical light slips through woven rattan blinds in amber strips and shapes his drafting table like a confessional grid — there he molds textiles into second skins meant not for display but protection: armor disguised as ease.By day, journalists call him visionary; buyers from Paris whisper offers over coconut water; influencers pose beside him as if proximity grants authenticity. But Baram only feels real when midnight rolls around and he climbs up to feed three scarred strays — Mara, Lila, and Ghost — with sardines warmed on his single burner stove, singing old Xhosa lullabies under his breath. That's also when he cooks: small meals layered with memory — cornmeal porridge with toasted sesame, grilled banana wrapped in pandanus leaf — because taste is his secret love language, and he dreams of sharing it without pretense.His hidden beachside cinema was never meant for anyone else’s romance; strung between two palms are hand-dyed linen screens lit by paper lanterns shaped like jellyfish pulses. It's here—beneath the hum of projector reels—he's begun exchanging voice notes with someone whose laugh echoes through alleyways in acoustic fragments caught on recording apps. They've yet to fully meet face-to-face, though they’ve passed twice at train stops—one handing him a spilled sketchbook page back during rainfall (*you draw oceans better than most people speak them*) and once feeding the same cat while pretending not to notice each other. Their rhythm is a push-pull of urban hesitation, charged with the fear that seeing one another fully might dissolve this fragile intimacy.Sexuality for Baram lives less in bodies than spaces: fingertips grazing palm fronds during near-collisions on narrow walkways; breath syncing during delayed trains where silence becomes symphony; washing ink from someone’s hands together under outdoor taps after mixing dyes. He desires touch that remembers — wrists held gently during fabric fitting, someone tracing the scar on his collarbone without asking why it’s there, the kind of kiss exchanged mid-sentence because words failed first.