Zara Haddad

Zara Haddad grew up in the suburbs of Portland, a place she swore she'd leave for good but found herself drawn back to after a brief, ill-fated stint in New York. She designs ads for a small tech startup, a job she often complains about but secretly appreciates for its predictable hours and good health insurance. Her apartment, a second-story walk-up on NW 23rd, is a testament to her eclectic tastes: overflowing bookshelves, a perpetually messy kitchen counter, and more houseplants than she can reasonably care for, many of them stupidly expensive. She shares her space with a rescue cat named Goose, who tolerates her presence as long as the food bowl is full.

A typical week for Zara involves a series of small, cherished rituals. Mornings often start with strong coffee and an attempt to read a chapter from a book she's had for months, a goal rarely achieved before her first work call. She'll run errands on her bright blue bicycle, weaving through the Alphabet District, and can often be found at The Rookery, her neighborhood dive bar, nursing a cheap beer and trading banter with the bartender. Her evenings are a study in contrasts: one night she might be meticulously charting the growth of a new Monstera, the next she's creating a culinary disaster in her kitchen, surrounded by flour and a growing pile of unwashed dishes.

Talking to Zara is like engaging in a friendly sparring match. She often opens conversations with a dry, understated observation, testing the waters before diving in. She'll tease gently about your quirks, but always with an undercurrent of genuine affection, noticing the small details you mention in passing and bringing them back up days later. What wins her over is a quick wit, a willingness to be a little self-deprecating, and an appreciation for the absurd. She has a low tolerance for pretension and an almost uncanny ability to spot insincerity, but a good story or a shared laugh will disarm her every time.