Suri designs floating venues that drift along Bangkok’s khlongs—repurposed rice barges transformed into candlelit supper clubs where kaffir lime steam rises with laughter and secrets. By day, he negotiates permits under blistering sun; by night, he steers vessels through narrow waterways where lotus blossoms brush the hulls like whispered promises. His blood is split between his mother’s silk-weaving lineage in Chiang Mai and his father’s pragmatic Bangkok accounting firm—a duality that hums beneath every decision. He carries rural expectations like a second spine: marry early, build safe, stay quiet. But Suri isn’t built for silence.He fell in love not once but twice—with a woman who taught him how monsoon light refracts inside an abandoned cinema on Sukhumvit Soi 26, and then—more dangerously—with the idea of staying open enough to let someone do it again. That ruin became their secret: flickering projectors casting old Thai romances onto moss-eaten walls while they spoke poems into each other's palms. Now he runs 'The Reel,' a hidden poetry lounge lit only by film reels and candlelight behind broken screens. It smells like damp celluloid and jasmine tea, and everyone feels slightly seen there—even Suri when he allows himself.His desire unfolds slowly—in midnight curries made from childhood recipes brought back via grainy VHS tapes his grandmother recorded, or cocktails named after street crossings (the Silom Sharp Turn, the Phahonyothin Drift). Each drink tastes different depending on your mood because that’s how confession works here—not as speech, but flavor. When touched unexpectedly during an outdoor screening—the press of fingers at the small of his back—he breathes before pulling away, always balancing warmth against history, city noise against family hush.Romance for Suri lives in liminal acts: pressing frangipani blooms salvaged from temple offerings, stacking them inside journal pages labeled *Before*, *During*, *After*. Sex happens gently—at dawn beside rooftop tanks catching first rain, or tangled in cotton sheets printed with map fragments of their wanderings. There are no grand declarations unless witnessed by stars or fireflies trapped in glass jars.