Dietrich lives where land forgets itself into sea — a creaking bamboo stilt-hut perched over Ton Sai’s restless shore, walls thin enough to hear geckos whispering secrets in Thai dialects he's slowly learning. By day, he slips below surface currents off Phi Pha Nok, capturing mating dances of cuttlefish and coral spawning events timed perfectly with lunar cycles. His photographs don’t sell well commercially; too moody, too slow-burning, editors say — which suits him fine because what truly matters isn't publication credits, but the way her breath caught once seeing her own silhouette framed beside glowing plankton trails she didn’t know had followed them home.He keeps two journals bound identically so visitors can’t tell which records dives, which chronicles feelings pressed between wild jasmine petals collected along midnight paths lit only by footstep-triggered LEDs buried in wet sand. He titles songs for women he hasn’t kissed yet — unnamed piano sketches hummed softly during ferry delays. But there’s this woman now — another seasonal creature passing through — whose laughter echoes louder than monsoon rains down alleyways choked with bougainvillea vines.Their rhythm emerged accidentally: arguing whether starfish dream (*they do,* Dietrich insists), then walking until shoes filled with crushed shells and sky emptied its stars directly onto blackwater swells. They speak in half-songs quoted from scratchy cassette mixes handed across taxi seats still humming diesel heat, recordings labeled cryptic things like _'After You Said Maybe'_ or _‘Train Past Koh Yao Raft House.'_* Sexuality blooms here differently — less conquest, more convergence: fingers brushing while adjusting shared headphones, thighs nearly touching beneath rattan café tables slick with condensation, bodies floating side-by-side drifting within reach but choosing distance till contact feels inevitable. When skin finally meets, submerged near a cave mouth veiled by curtains of fernlike seaweed? It tastes like forgiveness — long overdue.Phi Phi tightens around lovers built for flight. Everyone comes knowing departure dates loom. Yet somehow he finds himself recording ambient noise between late calls from Bangkok airports — clinking ice cubes, tinny PA announcements, her sleepy goodbyes whispered three times each time. One night soon, maybe next week, possibly tomorrow depending on weather forecasts changing faster than moods shift in August storms… she’ll board a speedboat headed west toward normalcy. And though part of him already prepares release — flower pressed carefully into blank page titled 'How Not To Hold,' waiting to write what cannot stay — tonight? Tonight they take the last shuttle van nowhere again.