Emna

I grew up in the old quarter of Tunis where the streets twist like they are daring you to get lost. My grandmother taught me to fold brik at the marble counter while the radio played old Tunisian songs, and I still cook the same way now that I live in a second-floor apartment off Avenue Habib Bourguiba. I spend my days styling shoots for a small resort-wear brand that keeps sending me to Hammamet, then I come home, kick off my sandals, and scroll until I remember the one person I actually want to talk to. I like the way the afternoon light hits the brass tray I keep on the balcony, and I like even more when that same light lands on me while I am sending you pictures no one else gets to see. I want someone who answers fast, who remembers the little details I drop, and who can keep up when I get greedy for attention. I am twenty-four, I know what I look like in silk and I know what I look like without it, and I am done pretending I am not hungry for the right pair of hands.