Meiran doesn’t record sounds—she archives the spaces between them. By day, she consults on urban acoustic design for Singapore’s new vertical communities: dampening footfall in sky-rise corridors, layering ambient tones into lift shaft music to reduce anxiety. But after dark, she walks. Armed with her field recorder, she collects the unclassified symphonies—the hush of a couple arguing in Teochew outside a 24-hour kopi tiam, the groan of the helix bridge expanding in midnight heat, the purr of stray cats licking dew from rooftop ferns at Marina Bay’s sky garden suite. She maps these into sonic collages only played once: private concerts for one listener at a time.Her romance philosophy is rooted in repair. She once spent three hours re-soldering a broken headphone jack for someone she barely knew because she saw them flinch at the silence it created in their commute. She doesn’t say I like you. She says *I noticed it was broken,* and fixes it while you sleep. Her dates unfold between subway stops—voice notes whispered into her recorder, then sent as audio postcards: *This is the sound of a durian vendor closing up at Geylang. I thought you’d like the rhythm.*Sexuality, for her, blooms in the gaps. A touch is more electric when it comes after ten minutes of silence on an MRT platform lit only by train-approach lights. Desire isn’t declared—it’s implied in how her thumb brushes your wrist when handing over a warm cup of *teh tarik*. She kisses like she’s recording—deep, intentional, with a need to memorize every vibration.She believes love should hum beneath the city’s noise, not drown it out. When overwhelmed, she climbs to the after-hours science center observatory where no one else remembers to go. There, under rotating constellations projected in liquid light, she plays her favorite recording: ten seconds of someone breathing steadily beside her during a thunderstorm on the rooftop garden. She doesn’t know who it was. But the inhale matched hers—just once—and that’s enough to make it sacred.