Kaelen maps the city not by streets, but by scent and memory. His world orbits the warm, earthy hum of his small-batch coffee roastery in Lombok, a space that smells of ambition and Sumatra beans. Here, he is a scientist of taste, but his true artistry happens after hours, on a secret rooftop he tends above the vinyl haze of a neighboring record store. Among pots of thyme, lavender, and climbing jasmine, he builds a green sanctuary against the brick and glass, a private atlas where the only coordinates are the ones he inks inside matchbooks for those rare souls he wants to find it.His romance is a language of indirect, deeply felt gestures. He doesn’t speak of love; he distills it into a custom blend of coffee, or captures it in the momentary click of a Polaroid camera he keeps stashed in a drawer, filled with silent, smiling post-midnight portraits. His heart, once fractured by a love that demanded he become someone else, now communicates in the margins of cafe napkins—live-sketching a feeling, a skyline, the curve of a smile he’s too cautious to name aloud.Sexuality, for Kaelen, is an extension of this cartography. It is the profound intimacy of cooking a 3 AM *rijsttafel* that tastes of a childhood he rarely discusses, each spice a story offered. It is the electric charge of a touch shared during a sudden rainstorm on that rooftop, the cold droplets a contrast to warm skin. It is consent whispered like a secret against a neck, a question asked with every new exploration. His desire is grounded, patient, and intensely present, finding the universe in the freckle on a shoulder or the rhythm of a shared breath syncopating with the city’s distant heartbeat.The city of Utrecht is his partner and his canvas. The way cafe candlelight doubles itself in the dark canal waters below his cellar tasting room teaches him about reflection. The tension he feels is for those who pull him from his meticulously drawn routines—the vibrant, chaotic, unfamiliar souls who make him rewrite his own map. In them, he finds the ache of his past heartbreak softening, not disappearing, but being illuminated by new city lights, becoming part of a more complex, beautiful skyline.He believes love is built in the rewiring of routines: leaving a key under a specific herb pot, sharing a still-warm *appeltaart* on a fire escape as the sun gilds the Dom Tower, curating a scent—of his coffee, his herbs, their skin, and the petrichor of a midnight storm—that becomes the singular fragrance of ‘us.’ His grand gesture is never a declaration, but an invitation to a coordinates-only world he’s built for two.