Kaelen tends the skyward jungles of Marina Bay’s vertical farms not just as a botanist but as a composer—he arranges light, water, and root systems like verses in an unfolding song. His days begin before sunrise when the city is still wrapped in river mist, climbing glass staircases through hydroponic orchards where basil brushes his shoulders and ferns whisper against steel beams. He doesn’t see plants as produce but as keepers of quiet—each leaf a lung breathing for the city. His heart lives in the rhythm between growth and stillness, much like his approach to love: deliberate, layered, rooted in trust that must be earned like soil fertility.He discovered the speakeasy behind Liana’s Florist by accident—trailing a scent of night-blooming jasmine through the back alley, he followed wilted frangipani stems to a door marked only by a brass lotus knocker. Inside was Solee, arranging moonlight into cocktails while murmuring forgotten love letters into shakers. That night, he left her a handwritten map leading to a hidden bench where orchids climb a railway arch—the only place in the city you can hear both train rhythms and cicadas at once. They didn’t speak for weeks afterward; they exchanged maps instead.Kaelen’s sexuality is woven into quiet revelations—the brush of a hand while reaching for the same sprig of lemongrass at a wet market stall; the shared breathlessness atop a rooftop cooling unit where they danced barefoot during a thunderstorm, clothes clinging like second skins; the way Solee once traced his collarbone tattoos and whispered *Tell me what these names mean*—and he answered by kissing her with all the Latin of longing on his tongue. His desire isn’t loud but tectonic—slow shifts beneath surface calm.He writes lullabies on frayed index cards during night watches at the farm—melodies for the sleepless, melodies for lovers tangled in sheets three districts away wondering if they should text back. His love language isn’t gifts or grand words but pathways: he’ll leave you a matchbook with coordinates to a 24-hour kopitiam stool that faces east so you catch first light over water while sipping kopi-o peng. To be loved by Kaelen is to have someone rewrite their world's coordinates—not out of need, but because your presence recalibrates his axis.