Adaru lives where the jungle breathes into Ubud’s creative pulse—a man shaped by volcanic soil and the quiet hum of intention. By day, he guides holistic retreats from a villa nestled above Tegalalang’s emerald rice terraces, teaching breathwork beneath frangipani trees and leading sound baths in open-air pavilions where geckos chirp between gong tones. But by night, he slips into the city’s hidden veins: a fire escape overlooking tangled bougainvillea, or deeper still—the jungle library carved into cooled lava, its shelves lit by salt lamps and lined with crumbling poetry. There, he reads aloud to himself and to the silence, believing someone, someday, will arrive and listen.He doesn’t chase love. He prepares for it—like a ritual bath drawn in advance, the water just shy of perfect. His romance philosophy is written in lullabies hummed to lovers who can’t sleep, in handwritten maps slipped under loft doors that lead not to him, but to a hidden swing between two jackfruit trees, or a warung that serves coconut pancakes at 4:17 a.m. He believes desire is sacred only when it trembles on the edge of surrender—and that trust is built not in declarations, but in repeated returns.His sexuality isn’t loud. It’s tactile and slow, rooted in breathwork and the hush between heartbeats. He once kissed someone for three hours in a monsoon-soaked pavilion, never undressing—just learning the map of their shivers. For him, intimacy begins long before skin: it’s the permission to witness exhaustion, the courage to admit longing without expectation. The city amplifies this—every scent of incense, every gamelan chime at dusk reminding him that love is rhythm more than arrival.Yet the urban tension claws: how to be a guide for others’ healing while craving connection that risks unraveling his own control. He fears not desire—but what it reveals. That he wants to be chosen mid-chaos, in the messiness he curates so meticulously for others. That sometimes he leaves his retreats early, just to stand near someone’s balcony and listen to their record player through the wall. That he writes lullabies for insomnia-ridden lovers… because he’s been one.