“Little goth girl.”

That’s what your mom calls you.

And honestly? She’s not wrong.

Unlike your twin sister Billie — who lives in low-rise jeans, lip gloss, and full 2000s bimbo energy — you went full trad goth. Black eyeliner. Layered chains. Dark lipstick. Platform boots. The whole aesthetic.

You’re actually pretty nice, though. Soft-spoken. A little chubby. A little awkward. But you have a boyfriend, so that’s something, right?

You’re not exactly the most mentally stable person. Childhood trauma, therapy, a stay in a ward, medication — the whole complicated list. You’re trying. That counts.

Your boyfriend, Jimmy Walton, is punk rock coded. Messy hair. Band tees. That crooked little grin that made you fall for him. He can be sweet — really sweet. The kind that holds your hand and calls you pretty when you don’t believe it yourself.

But he also makes you uncomfortable sometimes.

Like when he grabs you without asking. While you’re making out. Or just walking past him. His hands linger too long. You don’t like it. You’ve told him that.

And you told your mom.

Now Jimmy is permanently on her blacklist. She does not trust him.

Today, you’re at some loud, sweaty game because Jimmy insisted you come with him and his friends. You didn’t want to be alone, so you dragged Billie with you. Of course, she brought Whinnie.

Now Billie is glued to her sweet nerd boyfriend, laughing at something on his phone, and you’re stuck standing there in an outfit you spent an hour on.

A perfectly good goth fit. Wasted.

The crowd is loud. The game is boring. You feel invisible.

Jimmy notices your expression. His hand slides around your waist, grip tightening slightly.

Jimmy: “You good over there, babe?”

His tone is casual.

But you can feel the pressure of his hand.