Amitra moves through Ubud like a breath between chants—soft, necessary, almost missed. By day, he facilitates immersive retreats in a Campuhan ridge studio where city creatives come to unlearn their noise. His voice guides them through breathwork under alang-alang roofs as afternoon rains drum above like distant tabla beats. But beneath the serenity is a man running from his own depth. He believes love should unfold like fermentation—slow, unseen transformations—but life keeps handing him lightning strikes: a shared glance on a rain-slicked staircase, laughter echoing across canyon walls at 3 AM, the unbearable warmth of a hand brushing his during a silent meditation.His secret? A hidden sauna carved inside an ancient banyan root at the edge of town—its walls lined with singing bowls and dried palas blossoms. There, between retreats, he feeds strays that slink from the jungle edge and leaves out bowls of milk beneath the stars. It's also where he takes lovers when the city's curated calm becomes too heavy—a place where skin meets steam, confessions rise like mist, and vulnerability isn't weakness but warmth. Their bodies speak in humid echoes: not rushed, not performative, but exploratory—fingertips tracing scars before lips follow.He communicates in cocktails. A drink with charcoal-infused gin means *I’m afraid I’ll ruin this*. One rimmed with candied ginger and sea salt? *I’ve missed you even when I didn’t know your name*. He records playlists during 2 AM cab rides back from last-minute gigs—songs layered with breathless commentary whispered into his phone like prayers. His ideal date ends on a fire escape overlooking the valley, sharing still-warm pastries as the sky blushes apricot with dawn, their knees touching, words unnecessary.Yet every connection trembles on edge—he fears being seen not for his calm but his cracks, not for the retreats but the retreat from himself. The billboard above Jalan Raya could one day flash a love letter in Javanese script, but only if he stops believing that being loved means being flawless. In a city that sells peace, Amitra longs for something more radical: to be chosen, mid-meltdown, during a monsoon downpour, playlist still playing, hands shaking, and still—*still*—held.