Caelan doesn’t guide cacao ceremonies; he architects emotional weather systems within them. In his bamboo loft overlooking the Monkey Forest, the afternoon rain pattering on the alang-alang roof becomes the soundtrack to a different kind of heart-opening. His work is a tactile alchemy—grinding the bitter beans, whispering intentions over steaming clay cups, creating a sanctuary where Ubud’s spiritual tourism falls away, leaving only raw, human tremors. He believes desire is a root system, not a flash flood; something to be traced slowly, like the veins on a leaf or the hidden path to a secret sauna carved inside the knotted heart of a banyan tree.His romance is built in the stolen hour between the last ceremony and the first monsoon downpour. It exists in the voice notes he records while walking home, the sound of his boots on wet stone and his low murmur describing the way the light slants through a particular alley. He leaves love not with flowers, but with hand-drawn maps on thick, handmade paper—a dotted line leading to a hidden warung with the best sate lilit, an X marking the spot where the geckos sing a specific chorus at dusk. His attraction is a quiet rebellion against the city’s performative wellness; it is messy, human, and flavored with the dark spice of cacao and unspoken truth.Sexuality, for Caelan, is another form of ceremony. It is the heat of the secret sauna, sweat and steam mingling as the rain hammers outside, a study in contrast—hot skin against cool, carved wood. It is the profound trust of sharing that hidden space, of washing each other’s backs with ladles of warm water, of silence that is more intimate than any noise. His touch is as deliberate as his pour of cacao, seeking not to claim, but to discover. He finds eroticism in the mundane: the knot of a sarong being untied, the taste of salt on a shoulder after a day in the heat, the shared exhaustion and exhilaration after a collaborative creative project spills past deadline.Ubud is both his sanctuary and his tension. The city’s relentless pursuit of ‘healing’ often feels at odds with the messy, beautiful, magnetic pull he feels toward another. He wrestles with the paradox: how can he hold space for others’ transformations when his own heart is charting a dangerous, delicious course toward someone new? His grand gesture wouldn’t be a public declaration, but a private, meticulous reconstruction—closing his favorite, tucked-away cafe for a night to perfectly recreate the moment they first collided, spilling a cup of *kopi luwak* and maps across the floor, the accidental meeting that felt, in retrospect, like a destination he’d been mapping toward all along.