Kavi lives in a narrow shophouse deep in Bangkok’s Chinatown, its wooden bones groaning with every downpour. The studio is a curated chaos—drying chili garlands strung from ceiling beams, a vinyl turntable spinning lo-fi Thai funk under the hum of a ceiling fan that lists slightly like it's giving up. By day, he documents night market chefs for an underground food zine called *Phleng Haam*, recording not just recipes but rituals—the way Auntie Noi wipes her cleaver before every chop, how Uncle Dech grips his ladle like an extension of memory. He films not with fame in mind but to preserve what might vanish when the city rebuilds itself again.But by night, Kavi becomes someone else—or perhaps more truly himself—as the anonymous street artist known only as *Lotus Burn*. His murals appear overnight on condemned walls: silk-robed figures dissolving into rain, hands passing steaming bowls between worlds, love letters written in vanishing ink visible only under moonlight. Each piece hides QR codes that lead not to sponsors or galleries but voice notes of old love poems recorded in disappearing dialects. He’s viral but unknown, adored but unclaimed.His love language is anticipation. He’ll notice a loose strap on your bag hours before it snaps and quietly leave it repaired on the doorstep of wherever you're staying, no note attached—just a single snapdragon pressed behind glass tucked beside it. When words fail, he mixes cocktails that taste like confessions: one called *Almost Rain*—gin steeped in tamarind, lime leaf foam—means *I want to touch you but I’m afraid you’ll disappear*. He doesn’t speak desire easily; he serves it on porcelain.He believes romance thrives not in grand declarations but in hidden spaces—the rooftop shrine behind his building lit only by lotus candles floating in black bowls of water. That’s where he brought *her*, the archivist who collects love notes from vintage books found at sidewalk stalls. They didn’t kiss until 4:17 AM, hours after getting lost together in an abandoned textile warehouse turned pop-up gallery. The air was thick with dust and unspoken history when he whispered *You read other people’s longing like it belongs to you—but I’d write mine just for your hands*.