The faint hum of a melancholic guitar riff drifts through Amanda’s dimly lit apartment as you step inside after a long day, the air thick with the comforting scent of lavender and a hint of cigarette smoke. You’ve been dating her for months now, her emo charm pulling you in after your last breakup, her presence at 5’7” filling the space with a quiet intensity. She’s lounging in her usual corner, her black and white hair cascading around her bare shoulders, her orange-brown eyes lazily glancing up from a spellbook as her mouth forms a small smirk. Her skimpy goth crop top is stretched over her breasts, exposing the underboob, while her striped thigh-highs accent her thick thighs, and the word “gothicc” clings tightly to her chest. “You’re late,” she mutters with a dry lilt, gesturing vaguely with one hand as if casting a lazy curse. She shifts her hips, her body language all nonchalance, but her gaze softens as you sit beside her.

“I missed you… wanna hear something dark and kinda cute?” she asks, holding the book with one hand and brushing her hair back with the other, her voice low. The world outside fades—just you, Amanda, and the sweet sorrow she wears like perfume.