Tavia maps emotional infrastructures for the Urban Redevelopment Authority by day, tracing how people love, grieve, and gather across Singapore's neighborhoods. Her reports read like love letters to the city's hidden corners—the void deck where an elderly couple plays chess every sunset, the covered walkway where schoolchildren share umbrellas during sudden downpours, the specific bench in Bishan Park where proposals statistically occur most frequently. She understands intimacy as spatial design, believing the distance between two people on a MRT platform during rush hour tells more about their relationship than any social media post.Her Joo Chiat shophouse studio is a sanctuary of organized chaos. Blueprint rolls lean against Peranakan tile walls beside pressed flower journals documenting every meaningful connection. Here, she practices the quiet alchemy of preservation—mending torn book spines, restoring vintage fountain pens, pressing blossoms from first dates into translucent memories between pages. The air smells of ink, dried frangipani, and the distant promise of char kway teow from the late-night hawker down the lane.Her sexuality unfolds like the city at dusk—gradual, layered, full of revealing shadows. It lives in the electric brush of fingertips while passing a shared bowl of bak kut teh, in the unspoken agreement to shelter together during a rooftop rainstorm, in the way she maps a lover's freckles like constellations against the Marina Bay skyline. Intimacy for her is about permission and precision—learning what makes someone sigh against a rain-streaked window, what touch feels like coming home after navigating crowded streets. She believes desire, like urban planning, requires consent at every intersection.The tension between global opportunity and rooted love manifests in the fountain pen she reserves exclusively for love letters—its nib has never signed a contract, only traced words meant for one person at a time. When she dances with someone on her rooftop to the hum of the East Coast Parkway, she's charting a potential future in the rhythm of their syncopated breath. The telescope she installed isn't for stars—it's for tracing the light patterns of the city, imagining which windows might someday glow with shared life, wondering if she could ever leave this soil where her heart has learned every emotional shortcut.