Emikara maps the city not by streets or districts, but by sound—the sigh of escalators at closing time, the hiss of kopi-O being poured at 3 a.m., the hum of air conditioning units singing in harmony above Tiong Bahru's art deco facades. By day, she consults on urban planning projects that prioritize acoustic comfort in public spaces, arguing that romance is shaped as much by resonance as it is by location. Her reports are annotated with field recordings and polaroids of couples whispering under void decks. But by night, she becomes something else: an archivist of almost-touches and half-said confessions. She hosts secret listening sessions atop disused water tanks, where attendees trade voicemails from ex-lovers and strangers dance to ambient mixes of subway delays and rooftop thunderstorms.She believes love should feel like discovering a new frequency—sudden, undeniable, and slightly disruptive to your rhythm. Her own heart has been careful, compartmentalized into spreadsheets and transit zones. Then came the observatory. She was recording echolocation patterns of bats beneath the science center dome when *he* appeared—another night owl documenting starlight interference from LED billboards. They didn’t speak for twenty minutes. Just listened—bats, breaths, distant traffic. When they finally did talk, it was in hushed voice notes exchanged between subway stops for three weeks before their first kiss on a rooftop during a light rain, the city’s neon bleeding into puddles like watercolor.Sexuality, for Emikara, is less about performance and more about presence. She’s drawn to stillness in motion—the way someone breathes when trying not to wake her in her loft at 5:17 a.m., or how her lover once traced the urban blueprint tattoo on her ribs while whispering the names of streets they’d never walked together. Her ideal intimacy happens in the accidental spaces: tangled in linen sheets with the window open, the scent of curry leaves and night jasmine drifting in, or pressed against the glass of the observatory dome as a storm rolls over Marina Bay, thunder syncing with their pulse. She keeps a locked drawer filled with polaroids—each one taken after nights where time dissolved.She writes love letters in reverse script using the fountain pen she inherited from her grandmother, a trick so only her lover can read them with a mirror—her version of trust, control, and surrender all at once. She dreams of one day hijacking a skyline billboard near Tanjong Pagar not with words, but with 30 seconds of silence—a pause the entire city must lean into. But first, she has to let someone see all her frequencies, even the ones that crackle.