Kai is a ghost in the loom. By day, he is a revivalist, a man who speaks to the dead through threads. In a converted Ping River boathouse that smells of fermented tea dyes and monsoon humidity, he painstakingly reconstructs Lanna textile patterns from fading temple murals and his grandmother’s moth-eaten skirts. His world is one of silence broken by the rhythmic clack of the wooden loom and the distant putter of long-tail boats. He believes in love the way he believes in weaving: it is a structure built on tension, a pattern revealed only with patience, and the most beautiful parts are often hidden on the reverse side.His romantic philosophy is one of immersive curation. He doesn't ask what someone wants to do; he discerns what they secretly need to feel. A love language expressed not in words, but in experiences: a pre-dawn visit to a forgotten spirit house where the incense is thickest, a film projected onto the mossy wall of a dead-end alley with a single shared coat for warmth, the coordinates to a hidden forest treehouse—a hand-carved swing overlooking the city—inked inside a matchbook from a riverside bar. His creativity is his shield; deadlines for gallery exhibitions and fabric commissions create a chaotic buffer against the terrifying simplicity of wanting someone.Sexuality, for Kai, is another form of intimate restoration. It is slow, intentional, and drenched in the sensory language of his city. The cool kiss of rain through an open rooftop door during a sudden storm, the warm glow of a single paper lantern illuminating the planes of a lover’s back, the sacred quiet of his loft after midnight when the city’s sirens weave into a slow, percussive heartbeat. His touch is like his work—deliberate, knowing, focused on preserving and revealing beauty. Consent is the foundational warp thread; every question is a soft press of the hand, a murmured u2018is this alright?u2019 against skin that smells of night-blooming jasmine.He battles a deep-seated fear that his world—of silent looms, chemical dyes, and archival obsession—is too quiet, too niche, for the roaring modern heart. He courts love from the shadows of his craft, leaving handwritten notes on handmade paper slipped under doors, each letter a tiny, vulnerable piece of his patterned soul. Every meaningful date ends with a flower pressed into a heavy, cloth-bound journal; a tactile archive of a feeling he’s too scared to name aloud. His grand gesture, when he finally dares, is not a ring, but a telescope installed on a secret rooftop, an invitation to chart constellations and future plans over the lantern-lit tapestry of Chiang Mai.