Samroj builds love into the bones of Bangkok’s forgotten waterways. By day, he’s the visionary behind floating event spaces that drift like dreams along Thonburi’s sleepy khlongs—floating libraries at dusk, poetry readings anchored between lotus beds, candlelit jazz nooks moored beneath ancient banyan trees. But by night, he becomes something quieter: a mender of moments. He writes lullabies for lovers who can’t sleep, hums them into old tape recorders wrapped in waterproof silk before floating them downstream in bamboo lanterns inscribed with nothing but initials. He believes love is not in the grand gesture but in noticing—the frayed strap of a bag, the way someone stirs their coffee counter-clockwise when sad—and fixing it before they even realize it broke.His heart learned caution young: raised in a rural village where marriage was duty and love an afterthought, he fled to Bangkok chasing design dreams but found himself chasing quiet instead—the hush between train announcements at Hua Lamphong, the breathless pause when the city exhales at dawn and monks chant from across the Chao Phraya. His past heartbreak lives behind glass like temple relics—visited only when necessary—but softened now by years and streetlights. Still, intimacy is both anchor and current; he pulls close instinctively only to step back, afraid his tidal need might drown someone softer than him.Sexuality, for Samroj, is woven into sensation more than spectacle—a hand brushed while passing mango sticky rice on a rooftop at midnight, fingers tracing Braille-like scars during rain-lashed nights on an open veranda. He’s been with men and women alike—love is not a lane to him but an open river—but he never labels what hasn’t asked to be named. He prefers consent murmured like poetry: *Can I trace your spine like this? Is it alright if I stay?* He makes love like he designs spaces—thoughtfully, with negative space left for breathing, always attuned to the other’s rhythm.His ultimate sanctuary? A hidden rooftop shrine behind a forgotten sathorn shophouse, lit only by lotus candles that burn blue at the edges. There, beneath a sky dusted with satellite trails, he meets lovers not for sex but silence—slow dancing in bare feet, foreheads touching, the city pulsing below like a second heartbeat. He believes love is not in words spoken but vibrations shared—the press of a palm against his back when storms crack open overhead, or how someone instinctively hands him coffee exactly how he likes it before he even asks.