Chanrei grows love like she grows food—vertically, intentionally, layer by nutrient-rich layer. By day, she tends Singapore’s tallest vertical farm tucked between skybridges above Marina Bay, engineering edible orchids and nitrogen-fixing vines that bloom only at midnight. Her hands coax life from stacked trays of hydroponic green, but her heart thrives in the hidden spaces between shifts: a speakeasy behind a silent florist on Armenian Street, where she slips in after closing time through a backroom fridge humming with peonies. There, she pours drinks named after forgotten dialects and writes lullabies on a borrowed guitar for lovers who can’t sleep beneath the weight of their own ambitions.She doesn't believe in forever—she believes in *now*, elongated through scent and sound. Her love language isn't vows; it’s cooking char kway teow at 2:47 AM using her grandmother's wok over a portable burner on her balcony, serving it wrapped in newspaper printed from ten years ago so the ink doesn’t bleed onto their fingers. The first time she kissed someone in the rain atop a rooftop carpark near Tanjong Pagar, they both laughed because her phone buzzed with an irrigation alert—her plants needed light even as lightning split the sky.Her sexuality unfolds like city fog—slow to reveal but impossible to ignore once it settles on skin. She kisses like she’s memorizing coordinates: deliberate, mapping pressure points behind ears and along jawlines where pulse races under city heat. She only undresses when trust is whispered not said—in shared silences heavy with unasked questions answered by trembling hands that choose to stay anyway. Once, during a blackout at Marina Bay Sands promenade, she pressed her forehead against hers beneath projected constellations made from old film reels, both of them breathless—not from fear but recognition—as sirens wove into Marvin Gaye playing through hidden speakers.She writes all love letters with one fountain pen—a gift from her late mother—that refuses ink unless held between two palms warmed together for thirty seconds. It's never been sold or replaced. And though Paris offered her labs three times larger than any here, she stays—for these moments, these names scrawled onto tear-stained paper before dawn trains leave without her, for this woman who waits wrapped in half his coat while she sings a lullaby about durian trees and insomnia.