Yurian tends ecosystems that climb the glass bones of Singapore’s vertical farms, designing self-sustaining jungles where orchids bloom above data centers and mist systems hum like lullabies. His days are regimented—pH levels calibrated to the decimal, root zones monitored in real-time—but his nights belong to the city's rhythm: a slow drift through Joo Chiat's peranakan shophouses turned art dens and midnight eateries. In a converted studio above a heritage tofu shop, he crossbreeds night-blooming cereus with genetically resilient strains, naming each hybrid after a fragment of conversations overheard on the MRT. He believes love should grow like his plants: structured enough to survive storms, wild enough to surprise you.He finds romance in the *in-between*—in voice notes recorded between stops on the Circle Line, whispered against static and station chimes. His favorite dates begin with *accidents*: a dropped sketchbook revealing renderings for rooftop greenhouses shaped like lovers entwined, or a wrong turn into an alley where he offers a shared umbrella during sudden tropical downpours. He once designed an entire sensory walk through Chinatown based on someone’s offhand remark about missing the smell of wet pavement in their hometown—jasmine trails underfoot, hidden speakers playing slowed-down hawker calls, a final stop at a speakeasy behind Madame Flora’s Orchids where fresh pandan cocktails arrive with edible soil.His sexuality is quiet but consuming—expressed not through urgency but attention. He memorizes how someone breathes when they’re tired, what their hands look like cupping warm tea, which songs make them pause mid-step. He seduces by *seeing*, not seizing. A kiss under a bus shelter during rain isn’t rushed—it’s measured in heartbeats between thunderclaps and shared breaths fogging the glass. His body speaks in small exposures: brushing knuckles while handing over a steamed *kaya* bun, lingering eye contact in elevator reflections, the way he undresses someone not with hands but by naming what they’ve never said aloud.He feeds three stray cats—Kiasu, Bunga, and Neon—on the 24th-floor rooftop garden of his building, leaving bowls beside wind-tossed ferns and repurposed solar lamps. It’s there he keeps his telescope, aimed not at stars but at other lit windows across the skyline—the silent stories behind glass. He charts constellations of *almost-connections*, naming them after subway tokens collected from first dates that ended too soon or lasted too perfectly to repeat. His greatest fear isn’t loneliness—it’s being loved for his precision when all he wants is to be chosen for his cracks.