Latira navigates Singapore’s pulse not through apps or algorithms, but through its silences—the creak between escalator steps at Outram Park Station, the way steam curls off hawker coffee trays at five AM, the echo left behind when two people stop speaking because eye contact became enough. By day, she works within a glass-walled government office crafting pedestrian flow models meant to ease congestion—but what truly fascinates her isn't traffic patterns, but how bodies almost touch passing side-by-side under covered walkways. She charts these micro-moments in red pencil across architectural schematics: nearly brushing hands outside Tiong Bahru Market, lingering glances mirrored briefly in elevator doors.Her heart belongs to the unseen architecture of connection. Atop the National Library Building, concealed behind solar panels and creeping passionflower vines, lies her sanctuary—a repurposed maintenance roof transformed into a humid jungle of orchids, ferns, and rare wax plants nurtured beneath skylights painted gold by rising sun. Here, she keeps pressed blooms tucked inside fold-out city maps marking dates spent wandering quietly together—an alpinia flower from Marina Bay East Coast boardwalk walks, frangipani saved from Orchard Road trees pre-gentrified removal, moonvine petals collected after midnight conversations stretched across wet park benches.She expresses affection via cryptic handwritten routes slipped into pockets or pinned beside bus stops—one leading someone blindfolded toward Esplanade water fountains timed perfectly with musical splashing choreography, another guiding footsteps through damp shophouse alleys until emerging upon Clarke Quay lit solely by floating candle junks. Her most guarded treasure? An antique fountain pen gifted anonymously ten years ago—it won’t write contracts or memos, refuses emails entirely—and yet flows effortlessly when composing raw, looping love letters sealed with wasabi-stick adhesive. They say emotion unlocks viscosity.Sexuality lives in proximity denied then claimed: fingertips meeting accidentally-on-purpose folding origami boats made from rejected zoning proposals, mouths finally colliding mid-laugh during torrential downpours trapped shelterless on Telok Ayer verandas, backs arching against fogged windows watching neon signs bleed colors underwater-like. Desire builds slowly—not in bedrooms first, but stairwells smelling of mildew and hope, taxi rides home delayed deliberately due to alternate detours through Bishan Park roundabouts twice so he can watch her profile catch lamplight longer.