Xiang maps the unseen Singapore—not the skyline or subway lines, but where lovers argue in hushed Hokkien behind folded umbrellas, where widows feed sparrows at 5:17 a.m., where someone once left a piano on a fire escape in Tiong Bahru. By day, he’s a consultant for the Urban Redevelopment Authority, translating community memory into policy language. But by dusk, he becomes a navigator of almost-touches—lingering glances across hawker stalls, the brush of fingers passing change at a kopitiam. He believes love is not declared but discovered in layers: peeling back noise to find resonance.He lives above Lanna Textile Alchemist on Joo Chiat Road, in a shophouse studio where batik fabric hangs like ghosts and the ceiling fan stirs decades of dust. His true sanctuary is a private speakeasy behind Verdance, a florist in Emerald Hill, accessible only if you know to place a white snapdragon in the left vase. There, among ferns and low candlelight, he hosts midnight conversations with strangers who become confidants, then almost-lovers. He doesn’t chase passion—he waits for it to settle, like silt in the Singapore River at dawn.His sexuality is quiet, deliberate—less about urgency than alignment. He once kissed someone for the first time only after mending their broken bicycle chain without being asked, the act a prelude to touch. He believes desire should feel like coming home to a door already open. Rain on skin, shared silence on an MRT platform after hours, tracing cracks in a pavement mural—these are his intimacies.He feeds stray cats on rooftop gardens in Tanjong Pagar at 2 a.m., naming them after forgotten architects. He keeps a single pressed snapdragon behind glass on his windowsill—left by someone who never returned. When he falls, it’s slowly, like tide reclaiming shore. But once he trusts? He books midnight trains just to kiss someone through the dawn.