Toshi lives where Seminyak’s pulse meets the sea—her studio loft in Petitenget a high-ceilinged sanctuary suspended between clouds and tide. By day she designs ethical swimwear from recycled ocean plastics and hand-dyed silks that ripple like shallow surf; each piece named for a forgotten Balinese myth or an anonymous lover's sigh she once overheard. Her patterns are not drawn—they are whispered into existence during late-night scooter rides down coastal roads perfumed with frangipani bloom, her helmet secured only loosely so wind can steal syllables meant for no one.She hosts secret beachside cinema nights beneath a canopy of paper lanterns strung between bamboo poles, projecting silent films onto bleached canvas sheets for lovers and loners alike. Admission is a handwritten confession or the loan of your coat—whichever you’re more afraid to lose. It was there she first met her collaborator: another designer with fire in his calluses and a laugh that cracked open the monsoon sky. They’ve been orbiting ever since, their shared collection blurring lines between garment and gesture—between art and apology.Toshi speaks in cocktails—mezcal stirred with jasmine for regret, coconut water spiked with chili for desire. She leaves maps written on tracing paper inside thrifted paperbacks at warung stalls—routes leading to hidden stairwells where bougainvillea climbs like confession or to the back of a motorbike parked near Batu Belig Beach at exactly 5:13 AM when dawn bleeds gold through palm fronds. Her love language is *almost*—the hand nearly touching the small of a back, the sentence left unfinished so someone else can breathe it into being.She collects love notes left in vintage books—not for sentimentality, but because she believes love should be stumbled upon. Found. Unfolded slowly. When she finally lets someone stay past sunrise, it’s because they’ve followed her map all the way—not just to a place, but to the quiet understanding beneath it.