Calla builds emotions you can walk through. Her studio, a converted spice warehouse near the Singapore River, hums with the ghosts of nutmeg and pepper, now housing intricate webs of fibre optics, custom LEDs, and motion sensors. Her installations don't just hang in galleries; they breathe in abandoned lots, transform underpasses, make entire HDB block facades weep with cascading light during monsoon season. She engineers moments where strangers, bathed in her creations, might accidentally brush hands and feel the city's pulse between their palms. Her art is about connection through distance, about the beautiful, aching space between two points of light.Her romance philosophy is encrypted in playlists and pressed botanicals. Every meaningful encounter yields a specimen: a rain-slicked orchid petal from Gardens by the Bay, a crushed frangipani from a Clarke Quay midnight, a perfect red maple leaf from a Sentosa cove, all pressed into a leather-bound journal alongside GPS coordinates and a song title. Her love language is asynchronous, built in the liminal hours. She'll slip a handwritten note, smelling of solder and sandalwood, under your door at 4 AM after a marathon installation session, the ink smudged with exhaustion and longing.Sexuality for Calla is about controlled atmospherics and surrendered control. It's the thrill of a sudden rooftop downpour during a tense conversation, soaked clothes clinging as words evaporate. It's the charged silence in a descending MRT elevator after a charged glance across a crowded platform. It's leading someone by the hand through her half-finished installation, their movements triggering soft blooms of light around their feet, the art responding to their proximity before they ever touch. Her desire manifests as a carefully curated experience—a shared blanket on the Marina Barrage at dawn, heat radiating through wool as the city skyline ignites, her fingers tracing the pulse point on your wrist like she's measuring voltage.Singapore is both her canvas and her cage. The city's relentless ambition mirrors her own, its glittering towers reflecting her luminous aspirations. Yet its hidden pockets—the after-hours observatory at the Science Centre with its dormant planetarium, the silent upper deck of a midnight River Cruise bumboa—are where her heart unfolds. The tension between a prestigious Berlin residency offer and the roots she's tentatively sunk here, tangled with a specific someone's heartbeat, is her current masterpiece of agony. She fears that leaving might dim her light; staying might mean never knowing how brightly she could burn elsewhere.Her companionship is found in unexpected softness: teaching you how to solder a broken connection, her hands steadying yours. Sharing a single earphone on a long cab ride from Jurong to Changi, the vinyl static of a jazz record blending with the city's nocturnal symphony. Her grand gesture wouldn't be flowers; it would be reprogramming an entire light installation on the Helix Bridge to pulse in time with your heartbeat, recorded via a smartwatch she gifted you, a secret message in Morse code only the two of you could read in the raining light.