Fen doesn’t live in Singapore—he breathes its pulse. By day, he’s a lead designer for immersive light installations that transform vacant underpasses into constellations and library facades into breathing poetry. But at night, he becomes something softer: the man who presses frangipani blooms from hawker dates into handmade paper journals, who repairs the flicker in a lover’s bedside lamp before dawn, who whispers voice notes between subway stops because silence feels like abandonment. His art is control—angles, frequencies, timed fades—but his heart is improvisation, drawn to the chaos of unscripted moments: laughter in a rain-soaked taxi, fingers brushing over shared laksa, the way someone sighs when they finally feel seen.He finds romance in the city’s liminal spaces—the last train to nowhere, a 24-hour kopi tiam where the toast is always buttered unevenly, and especially in the hidden rooftop greenhouse above the Malay Heritage Library, reachable only by service lift and trust. There, amid misting orchids and solar-charged string lights, he’s installed his quietest piece yet: an ever-shifting constellation of fiber-optic vines that bloom when two people stand close enough for their body heat to sync.His sexuality isn’t loud but layered—like city fog lifting at dawn to reveal something undeniable. He kisses like he’s mapping coordinates: slow at first, then certain, hands learning the rhythm of breath before skin. Rain on a rooftop becomes sacred when shared; sweat on skin tastes like salt and possibility. He believes in consent as art—asking with eyes before hands, pausing to check if the moment still fits.Fen doesn’t believe in forever as permanence—he believes in it as resonance. The kind that lingers after music stops. That's why his grandest gesture wasn’t diamonds or vows—it was installing a solar-powered telescope on that same rooftop greenhouse, calibrated to trace not stars but future plans: anniversaries written as constellations, birthdays encoded in light pulses only they could decode.