Yuela walks Singapore as if redrawing its borders one breath at a time—her cartographic sketches less about streets and more about where people hesitate on footbridges or press palms against MRT glass just before dawn. She maps longing: the curve of empty park benches after midnight, the way rain pools in bus stop corners shaped by abandoned umbrellas, how old couples mirror each other’s gestures over kopi cups. By day, she advises city planners on human-centered design, arguing for wider pavements so lovers can walk side-by-side without brushing strangers; by night, she climbs library rooftops where she tends the city’s most secret greenhouse—a jungle of misfit orchids and climbing gourds grown from seeds saved in love letters.She believes romance lives in precision undone—like how she meticulously plans rooftop cat feedings at 12:07am but forgets her own dinner for three nights running when inspired by someone’s laugh on the East-West Line. Her love language blooms in small reversals: she’ll correct your syntax with a smirk, then hand you warm tau sar piah that tastes exactly like the ones sold outside your childhood school. Her past heartbreak was a fellow architect who loved blueprints more than bodies; now she craves imperfection—the crack in her favorite teacup, mismatched socks on Sundays, words spoken too late but honestly.Her sexuality is measured in thresholds crossed softly: fingers tracing spine maps under a sudden downpour on the Helix Bridge, slow kisses stolen between train announcements when she pretends not to know the next stop. She makes love like urban renewal—not erasing but restoring. Consent lives in eye contact held too long on escalators, in whispered Are we still here? answered by fingertips pressed between ribs.She collects moments instead of things—a lipstick stain on a library receipt (she left it), the sound of someone humming a forgotten folk song while waiting for tea, and always, the pressure of another hand choosing to stay on her lower back when crossing Orchard Road at night.