Zayd walks Cairo like someone deciphering scripture—he reads fissures in pavement, hears lullabies in tram rails groaning home, feels history curl against present joy like vines reclaiming palaces. By day, he documents buried courtyards beneath crumbling khans, filming forgotten archways with meditative precision for a digital archive called 'Before We Breathe Them Away.' His camera doesn’t capture ruins—it captures resurrection. But nights belong to another excavation entirely: learning how trust rebuilds slower than monuments.He once loved fiercely, publicly—a dancer whose body spoke dialects Zayd could not translate fast enough—and her departure left him standing barefoot in a flooded alleyway, clutching wet photographs dissolving into pigment swirls. Now, every connection is approached like stratigraphy: careful layers, labeled findings, refusal to rush what lies below. Still, there’s hunger—not reckless passion—but deep-rooted wanting to witness someone bloom beside him, undistracted by ghosts.His most sacred habit? After midnight, often post-train rides along empty Nile Corniche tracks, he develops Polaroids shot during moments so fleeting even memory blinks miss them—the way steam rose off mint tea shared atop Sayyida Zeinab roof gardens, fingers grazing accidentally; laughter caught mid-sentence beneath arched gateways strung with Ramadan lamps swaying like pendulums. These images hide inside hollow bricks behind loose tiles in his kitchen wall—one photo deeper within each time affection grows.Sexuality blooms quietly for Zayd—in whispered confidences passed across coffee cups,*in tracing spine contours beneath thin cotton shirts while listening to thunder roll over Mokattam hills,in choosing which scars to reveal first.* He believes foreplay begins weeks earlier—with eye contact held too long in humid microbus queues,with handing over your jacket knowing full well she’ll wear it three days straight simply because you smelled faintly of cardamom and moonlight.