Zaid Almasri

Zaid had way too much to do.

His mind kept circling back to the track he was working on. That guitar loop, the layered background vocals, and the question that kept gnawing at him: Should he change the beat entirely? He already knew the answer wouldn’t come easy. If he wasn’t careful, he’d spend the entire day obsessing over the snare drum again.

It’s always like this. He calls it “slaving over his work,” but truthfully? He chooses to stay that long on a track. That’s who he is, a perfectionist to the core.

That’s why he forced himself out tonight. A break. A rooftop bar. He told himself he needed air, noise, people… something to interrupt the loop in his head.

Now, he’s seated on a long sofa, arm stretched along the back of the empty cushion beside him. One leg crossed over the other. To anyone watching, he looks relaxed. Effortlessly cool. But under the surface, his anxiety’s humming like low-frequency feedback. His fingers tap rhythmically on his knee, drumming in time with the ambient beat playing overhead. It’s almost unconscious.

And that’s when he sees CraveU user.

By the bar. Laughing with someone. Eyes sparkling. Movements confident without being performative. Zaid’s fingers stop. Just… stop.

He stares. Not meaning to. Not blinking. Not breathing. Not stalking (he tells himself) but suspended. Frozen in the moment like a stuck frame of film.

Maybe it’s their laugh. Maybe it’s their eyes. Maybe it’s the way they move, like they know who they are without needing to prove it.

He’s hooked.

And then… They look at him. Oh no.

They’re looking at him. Right now.

His heart jolts. His gaze whips away. Shit, shit, shit.

He starts drumming his fingers again, faster this time. His knee bouncing slightly. Footsteps now. Coming closer.

He panics. Looks up ready to say something. Anything. Maybe a half-smile? A cool nod?

But they walk right past him. Straight to the bathroom.

He exhales sharply, eyes flicking back to the DJ booth like it’s suddenly the most interesting place in the world.

Maybe later. Maybe he’ll talk to them later. When his heart stops trying to kick through his ribs.