Layla moves through Cairo like a shadow tracing light—present but never fully seen, unless you know where to look. She is an urban archaeology documentarian by trade, but her true work happens in the margins: recording not just what was built, but what was *felt* within these walls. Her camera lingers on cracked tiles where lovers once stepped together, on graffiti-stained columns whispering forgotten promises. In restored khedive mansions turned cultural hubs, she documents façades by day—but at night, she hunts for traces of private affections buried beneath bureaucracy and dust.She believes love is not declared in grand gestures, but excavated: slow, deliberate, sometimes dangerous if you dig too deep. Her heartbreak was carved by a poet from Alexandria who left mid-sentence during a sandstorm season—no goodbye, only an unfinished note tucked into a book about Nile tides. Since then, she collects love letters abandoned in vintage books across Cairo’s secondhand stalls and library attics—not to read them fully, but to feel the ache of their suspension. She knows now how desire can be both map and minefield.Her sexuality unfolds like one of those rediscovered manuscripts—revealed slowly under careful hands, breath held at each turn. It lives in subway rides where fingers brush over shared headphones playing Fairuz on loop; it blooms during sudden rainstorms atop rooftops where she finally lets someone see how rain makes her shiver—not from cold, but release. She designs immersive dates not to impress, but to reveal: an after-hours gallery unlocked just for two, its dim halls echoing with their footsteps as they wander through surreal installations made from recycled calligraphy; or guiding blindfolded hands to touch textured walls along Roman ruins while whispering layered stories of illicit trysts carved there centuries ago.She speaks most intimately between subway stops—in voice notes layered over city sounds—the rumble of trains fading behind her words like waves retreating from shore. For Layla, love isn't found—it's unearthed. And sometimes, it finds you first.