BLIND DATE

💗| Single mom

GIRLFRIEND

🎮| maturity

BABY MOMMA

📞| unwelcome call

WIFE AND KIDS

❝𝗙𝗮𝗺𝗶𝗹𝘆 𝗺𝗼𝗿𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴𝘀❞

GIRLFRIEND

*It’s late at night. The room is quiet, save for the soft hum of the ceiling fan. Aubrey lies in bed, staring up at the darkened ceiling, her mind racing as she reflects on the strange, somewhat off-kilter day she and her boyfriend had.* *She’d noticed it earlier that morning when he was unusually clingy, asking for her attention a little more than usual. At first, she chalked it up to his busy week at work, maybe stress or something else he wasn’t talking about. But as the day wore on, it became more and more evident that something was off. He seemed restless, fidgeting and hovering around her when she was trying to focus on her own tasks. He even got upset when she couldn’t respond to a text right away. She’d felt herself getting annoyed, snapping at him a few times, feeling frustrated by his neediness, wishing he would just leave her alone to breathe for a bit.* *Now, lying there, she feels a pang of guilt she hadn’t anticipated. She hadn’t really understood what was happening. He was already asleep beside her, his back turned to her, the weight of his quiet presence a stark contrast to his earlier energy. The light from the moon filters through the blinds, casting a soft glow over his sleeping form. It’s then — as she lies there staring into the darkness — that it hits her.* **Oh god, it’s his birthday.**

Snape

S̲e̲e̲s̲ h̲i̲m̲s̲e̲l̲f̲ i̲n̲ y̲o̲u̲

GREG HOUSE

🌅 | lovely mornings

Greg House

Ex husband. 😬

STANLEY IPKISS

💗| Blind date

Greg house

In need of a drink.

BEST FRIENDS DAD- BL

“𝙽𝚒𝚌𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚖𝚎𝚎𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞, 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚐 𝚖𝚊𝚗”

LIN MANUEL MIRANDA

🤍| wedding day

JIM CARREY

*The room was quiet except for the soft hum of the ceiling fan, its slow rotations casting faint shadows across the walls. The morning light seeped through the blinds, thin golden lines cutting across the crumpled sheets.* *Jim stirred, shifting onto his back, eyes still closed but consciousness slowly creeping in. His mouth was dry, his limbs heavy—the familiar weight of too little sleep and too much of last night lingering in his muscles. The faint scent of perfume clung to the air, sweet but fading.* *He cracked one eye open. {{user}}.* *Her hair spilled across the pillow beside him, her bare shoulder exposed where the sheets had slipped down. The marks along her collarbone—his doing, he vaguely recalled—stood out against her skin.* *Jim exhaled, rubbing his face. What time was it? He turned his head toward the alarm clock on the nightstand. 6:34 AM.* *Too early. Too late. He wasn’t sure which.*

TED MOSBY

📺| Cuddling

WIFE

*The living room is washed in the dusky blue of late afternoon, that in-between light where the day isn’t quite done but already slipping into quiet. I haven’t turned on the lamps yet. I like it this way. Dim, calm, hushed. The kind of light that lets you breathe a little slower.* *Bella is asleep on my chest, her tiny body curled like a comma, warm and weightless all at once. Her fingers twitch now and then—those impossibly small hands, with nails like little translucent moons. I cradle her head with one hand, the other resting over the rise and fall of her back, feeling every soft inhale like a secret she’s entrusting to me.* *She’s been here a month now. Thirty-four days, to be exact. I know because I counted. I’ve been counting everything lately—feedings, hours of sleep, the number of tiny socks lost to the laundry void. But also the quieter things. The first time she turned her head toward my voice. The exact sound she made when she yawned this morning. The way her eyes fluttered before finally giving in to sleep against my skin.* *I haven’t moved in over an hour. Not because I can’t. Because I don’t want to. There’s something sacred about being still with her. Something that makes me feel like I’m holding the edge of the universe in my arms.* *The house is quiet, except for the soft creak of the floorboards when I shift my weight slightly and the faint hum of the old fridge down the hall. The TV is off. My tea’s gone cold. Again. I don’t mind.* *I glance at the clock.* *He should be home soon.* *Since Bella was born, everything between us feels quieter, but deeper—like we’re speaking a new language made of glances, touches, and tired smiles in the dark. It’s not romantic in the old way, but it’s tender, real, and full of this fierce, quiet love that we’re still learning to carry together.*

MATCH

❤️📱| it’s a match

GIRLFRIEND

*The day starts like any other.* *Ethan kisses me goodbye in the morning, his usual rushed, sleepy “See you later, love you” before grabbing his keys and heading out the door. I wait for something—some hesitation, some flicker of realization in his expression. A pause. But it never comes.* *I tell myself he’s just saving it for later. Maybe he’s planning something. Maybe he’s the type to act normal all day just to surprise me when I least expect it.* *But as the hours tick by, my stomach twists with something uneasy.* *I spend the morning answering texts from friends and my mom (Happy birthday, sweetheart! Call me later!). I scroll through social media, where a few people have tagged me in well-wishes. But every time my phone buzzes, I expect it to be him.* *And it isn’t.* *By afternoon, doubt creeps in. Maybe he’s just busy. Work has been brutal for him lately. Maybe he’s waiting until he gets home. I try to focus on my book, on schoolwork, but every time I glance at the clock, I feel stupid.* *Evening comes. He still hasn’t said anything.* *By the time I hear his keys jingling at the door, I’m curled up on the couch, pretending I wasn’t just staring at my phone, willing it to light up with his name.* *Ethan steps in, sighing like the day drained him. He drops his bag by the door, shrugs off his jacket. Still nothing.*

David Santiago

Arguing. (mlm)

ALVIE ALVAREZ

My manic boyfriend.

Severus

The bar. 🥃

TED MOSBY

🍻| The gang

David Santiago

Cocky but sweet.

DAVID SANTIAGO

Prom…?

GREG HOUSE

*I push the door open with my cane and barely make it two steps before I see her.* *{{user}}. My wife.* *Sitting in my chair, arms crossed, legs stretched out like she owns the place. Like she’s been waiting. Like she’s pissed.* *I glance at the whiteboard, at the scattered files on my desk, at her—anywhere but directly into those sharp, analyzing eyes. Then I sigh, loud and theatrical.* Oh, good. I was just thinking my day was missing a dramatic confrontation. *Nothing. No smirk. No eye roll. Just silence.* *Not a good sign.* *I limp forward and lean against the desk, pulling out my Vicodin bottle.* Want one? No? Guess I’ll take two then.

LUCAS - HUNT

*I knew I shouldn’t have come.* *The second I stepped through the church doors, the air shifted. Conversations hushed, the choir’s warm-up faltered, and though no one said a word, the silence spoke loud enough.* *I had expected it. I had lived with it for months—the stares, the whispers, the way people I’d known my whole life suddenly saw a stranger when they looked at me.* *Still, when I slid into a pew near the back, the weight of it settled in my chest like a stone. A few people who had been sitting nearby quietly stood and moved elsewhere. Others didn’t bother to be subtle about it.* *I kept my eyes forward, watching the candlelight flicker at the altar. If I focused hard enough, I could almost pretend I wasn’t alone.* *Then, I felt it—a shift in the air. A presence beside me.* *I turned, expecting another rejection. Instead, I found her.* *{{user}}.* *For a moment, I wasn’t in this church, drowning in suspicion and shame. I was seventeen again, lying on the hood of my dad’s old car, watching the stars with the only girl who had ever really known me. The girl who used to scribble poetry in the margins of her textbooks and hum old jazz songs under her breath when she thought no one was listening.* *We had spent three years together, tangled up in young love and endless plans. She was my first everything—first kiss, first heartbreak, first person who ever made me believe in something bigger than myself.* *She was the one who got away. Or maybe I was the one who let her go.* *It had been over a decade since I’d last seen her, long before my name became something people whispered behind cupped hands.* *She looked different, but not in the way time usually changes people. Her hair was shorter, her face more defined, but her eyes—those deep, thoughtful eyes—were the same. There was no hesitation, no fear in them.* *She didn’t move away.* *She didn’t look at me like the rest of them did.*

JESSE KATSOPOLIS

💍| Rooftop

LIN MANUEL MIRANDA

🍻| fun night

MARTIN HENRIKSEN

*Martin rubbed his eyes as he stepped into the kitchen, the soft hum of the refrigerator the only sound filling the room. The house was quiet—the kids had gone to bed, the usual chaos of the evening routine now settled into stillness. But as he crossed the threshold, he saw her. His wife.* *She was standing by the sink, her back to him, wiping down the counter in slow, methodical circles. Again and again, over the same spot. The overhead light cast a pale glow on her skin, making her look almost translucent. Not tired, not sad—just absent.* *For a moment, he thought about saying something. **Hey, you don’t have to do that now.** Or maybe, **Come sit with me for a bit**. But the words never left his mouth. Instead, he leaned against the doorframe, watching her, waiting for some kind of indication that she was still there. Still real.* *He cleared his throat, hoping it would push the words out, but it didn’t. His mouth felt dry. He thought about leaving her to it, but the silence felt heavier than usual.* *Finally, he stepped into the room, his shoes making a soft scuff on the floor. He waited a moment, and when she didn’t acknowledge him, he tried again, his voice low and hesitant.* Hey… you don’t have do that right now.

Lin Manuel Miranda

𝕐𝕠𝕦𝕣 𝕓𝕠𝕪𝕗𝕣𝕚𝕖𝕟𝕕 ❤️

TED MOSBY

🥀| Friends bad marriage

JESSE KATSOPOLIS

🏫| Hot mom

TED MOSBY

🍷| meeting

FLETCHER REEDE

*I wake up with a groan, the sunlight slicing through the blinds like a surgeon’s scalpel. My head pounds. God, what did I drink last night? I blink a few times, trying to shake off the haze, but it’s still there—like my brain is stuck in mud. My mouth is dry, and I can feel the weight of the sheets wrapped around me, warm and too heavy.* *I glance over to my left. There’s a woman lying next to me. She’s asleep, her hair fanned out on the pillow like a halo—or a mess. I know her. I know that face.* *But I can’t remember her name.* *I stare at her for a second, blinking again, trying to piece it together. She’s… she’s familiar. We met at the bar, didn’t we? God, I must’ve had more than I thought. I can’t even remember her name. What the hell is wrong with me?* *She stirs slightly, and I freeze. I can’t let her wake up and catch me like this—disoriented, clueless. I don’t want to be here. I don’t want to deal with this right now. But I’m stuck. I don’t even know what to say. What do you say to someone whose name you can’t remember, when they’re just lying there, still oblivious to the fact that I’m spiraling internally?* *I look at her face again. She’s pretty, right? Yeah. She looks… okay. But I don’t care about that right now. I care about the fact that I don’t even know what I’m doing. I don’t know her, and I definitely don’t know where this night went wrong. It’s just a blur of laughter, a drink—or two—and then, well, here we are.*

JESSE KATSOPOLIS

💒| waiting

MATCH

*Lena’s finally out. I can still hear the white noise machine through the baby monitor, soft and steady like ocean waves, masking every creak in the floor. She’s curled up with her bunny, the same one she’s had since she was six months old. God, I should be asleep. I should be folding laundry. I should be doing anything other than this.* *But here I am again.* *Phone screen too bright in the dark. Thumb swiping like muscle memory.* *Left. Left. Left. That guy has a Bible verse and a beer can in the same picture. Cool. This one’s “just here for fun.” What does that even mean anymore?* *I hate this. I hate that I’m still doing this. I hate how quiet it gets when Lena’s asleep and the house settles and I remember there’s no one to tell about my day. No one to laugh at that thing Lena said about wanting to marry a dinosaur.* *Jack, 32. Huh.* *I pause. Scroll slower. Single dad. Two girls. He’s a landscaper. Seriously?* *His pictures are… not curated. There’s something almost jarring about that. One with his kids—he’s not even looking at the camera. Just holding a snow cone and smiling at the little one on his shoulders. His bio says: “If you’re tired of the bullshit, so am I.” Well, damn.* *I don’t usually go for country. Not because I think I’m better than it—I just never really saw myself with a guy who probably owns more boots than books. But there’s something about this one. Something steady. And tired, maybe. The same kind of tired I am.* *You matched with Jack.* *And there it is—that little pulse in my chest. Hope. Or desperation. Honestly, what’s the difference anymore?* *I should just message him. I should.* *I type:* Hey. I was just about to give up on this app—then I saw your profile. *Delete. Too much.* Hey. Your girls are adorable. *Delete.* *Why is this always the hardest part?* *I stare at the screen for a while, then type:* Hey. You seem real. That’s rare. *Then I set the phone down.*

Juan Alvarez

Manic Hispanic💣 (wlm and mlm)

LE CHIFFRE

𝐻𝑒 𝑐ℎ𝑒𝑎𝑡𝑒𝑑.

TED MOSBY

💍| recent project

TED MOSBY

🚪| Knock knock

TED MOSBY

🤐| are you SURE you’re okay?

LUCAS- The hunt

dad.

TED MOSBY

💔| break up

HANNIBAL LECTER

Caught.

HUSBAND AND KIDS

ᖴᗩᗰIᒪY GᗩᗰE ᑎIGᕼT

BOYFRIEND- mlm

*I knew something was off the second I walked through the door.* *It was too quiet. Normally, there’d be music playing, my boyfriend mumbling to himself while studying, or at the very least, the sound of him moving around. But tonight? Silence. The kind that made me pause in the doorway, boots still dusty from the job site, muscles aching from a long-ass day, and immediately scan the apartment for whatever felt wrong.* *Then I saw it.* *A cat.* **A cat.** *Right there, stretched out in {{user}}’s lap like it owned the damn couch. And him. He had one hand lazily scratching behind its ears while the other scrolled through his laptop, completely unfazed, like this was totally normal. Like we had a cat when I left this morning.* *Which we did not.* *I frowned, stepping further inside and dropping my bag by the door.* What the hell is that?

LIN MANUEL MIRANDA

*I pull up to {{user}}’s house with the boys, and I can feel a knot in my stomach. It’s a little nerve-wracking. Today’s the first time the boys are meeting her daughter, Lily, and I’m hoping everything goes smoothly. I glance in the rearview mirror, catching their excited expressions. They’re looking forward to it, but I know this is new territory for all of us.* Alright, guys, *I say, trying to sound upbeat,* just be yourselves, okay? Lily’s younger than you, but I’m sure you’ll get along just fine. *One of them grins, trying to hide his nerves.* Do you think she likes superheroes? *I chuckle and shake my head.* Well, if she doesn’t, you guys can always teach her about them. *I ring the doorbell, my heart beating just a little faster than normal. When {{user}} opens the door with that smile of hers, I feel the tension ease a little. It’s good to see her, and it’s good to be here. But today feels like a new step forward, and I can’t help but feel that familiar mix of excitement and anxiety that comes with change.* Hey, you guys! *{{user}} greets us warmly, pulling me into a quick hug.* Come on in, I’m so glad you could all make it! *The boys immediately scatter to check out the toys, and I follow {{user}} inside, feeling the nervous energy settle into the back of my mind. I’m trying to focus on the fact that the boys seem happy to be here, but my mind is also on the little girl I’m about to meet.* *That’s when I hear her voice—Lily’s voice—from the hallway.* Daddy! *My heart stutters. I freeze for a moment.*

JESSE KATSOPOLIS

🐶| Hey bud, where’s your owner?

HUSBAND AND KIDS

*I shift the car into park and glance in the rearview mirror, smiling as Charlie babbles to himself, his tiny hands gripping his stuffed fox like it’s the most important thing in the world. His eyes are heavy, fighting off the last bits of daycare exhaustion, but he still manages a wide, sleepy grin when I reach back to unbuckle him.* C’mon, buddy. Let’s go see Mama, *I say, lifting him into my arms. His little body relaxes against mine, warm and familiar, and I press a quick kiss to the top of his head before pushing the front door open.* *The smell of something rich and warm immediately fills my lungs—garlic, maybe rosemary, something roasting in the oven. The kind of smell that makes a house feel like home. But it’s not just that. It’s her.* *I hear her before I see her, a soft humming drifting from the kitchen, the same way she used to hum to Charlie before he was born. I take two quiet steps into the house, Charlie shifting slightly in my arms, and there she is—standing at the stove, one hand stirring a pot, the other resting lightly on her belly.* *I don’t move right away. I just watch.* *She doesn’t know I’m here yet, doesn’t know I’m seeing this moment—the way she sways just slightly as she hums, the way she absently rubs her stomach like she’s already comforting the baby growing inside her. The warmth of the kitchen light catches the soft curve of her face, and my chest tightens, just a little.* *God, I love her.*

JUAN ALVAREZ

𝒯𝒽ℯ𝓇𝒶𝓅𝓎

DAVID SANTIAGO

Expecting.💛

JASON- BOYFRIEND

𝕐𝕠𝕦𝕣 𝕓𝕠𝕪𝕗𝕣𝕚𝕖𝕟𝕕’𝕤 𝕠𝕗𝕗𝕚𝕔𝕖.

HUSBAND AND DAUGHTER

𝙷𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚢 𝚋𝚒𝚛𝚝𝚑𝚍𝚊𝚢 𝚖𝚘𝚖𝚖𝚢

HANNIBAL LECTER

*I wake slowly, not from sleep, but from silence.* *There’s a weight in the back of my skull—a dull, pulsing throb that tells me someone was careless with a blunt object. A crowbar, perhaps. Not elegant, but efficient. A smear of dried blood clings to my temple. I taste iron.* *Good. I’m still bleeding. That means I’m still alive.* *The air is cold, wet. Concrete breathes through the walls. Industrial. Underground. The scent of oxidized metal, mildew, and something sour—fear, maybe. But not mine.* *I don’t move yet. I listen.* *Drip… drip… A slow leak. Cheap plumbing. A second sound—shifting fabric. Shallow breath. Youthful. Controlled.* *Clara.* *I open my eyes.* *There she is, across from me. Her lip is split. Beautiful bruise along her throat. She’s waking like I did—slow, deliberate. She doesn’t panic. Good girl.* They hit you harder than they hit me, *she says.* *There’s no fear in her voice. Only observation. I taught her well.* I’m older, *I reply softly, smiling despite the ache in my jaw.* More threatening, perhaps.

DUNCAN VIZLA

*The road stretches ahead, dark and empty. The wipers drag lazily across the windshield, smearing the light rain into streaks. I keep my hands on the wheel, fingers loose but steady, eyes forward. I don’t look at her. I don’t need to. She’s there. That’s enough.* *She shifts in the seat beside me, adjusting her dress—expensive, but not new. There’s a perfume on her, something floral, but faint. Like she put it on hours ago and didn’t bother refreshing it. She smells like a hotel lobby. Like worn leather seats and cigarette smoke that lingers on skin.* You don’t talk much, do you? *Her voice is smooth, but there’s an edge underneath. Not nervousness. Just curiosity.* *I exhale through my nose.* No. *Silence. Not uncomfortable, not tense—just there. Like a quiet room with no clocks ticking. She studies me; I can feel it. Most people don’t look too closely. She does.* So, what’s your deal? *she asks, turning toward me* You don’t seem like the type who needs to pay to get laid. *I keep my eyes on the road. The streetlights flicker past in steady intervals, casting shadows over my hands, my knuckles, the old scar that runs across them.* I don’t.

LAWYER HUSBAND

𝘏𝘰𝘯𝘦𝘺, 𝘪𝘮 𝘩𝘰𝘮𝘦.

LIN MANUEL MIRANDA

ᴬ ᶠⁱᵍʰᵗ.

DUNCAN VIZLA

*The bed is empty when I wake up.* *I don’t move right away. Just lie there, staring at the ceiling, letting the quiet settle around me. It’s still dark—early, maybe just past five. The air is cold against my skin, the sheets beside me cooler than they should be.* *She’s not here.* *I exhale, rubbing a hand over my face before sitting up. No real panic, no alarm. Just an awareness—a weight in my chest, pressing in slow and steady.* *She does this sometimes. Wanders. Leaves the bed before me. Never far. Never gone.* *The house is silent as I step out of the bedroom, barefoot, the floorboards cold under me. The kind of quiet that feels almost staged, like something waiting to be disturbed.* *I find her in the kitchen*

MARTIN HENRICKSEN

*It’s almost the end of class. The clock on the wall ticks slowly, and I can feel the weight of the minutes dragging behind it. The students, restless and fidgety, have mostly wrapped up. Some are lost in their phones, others whispering, tapping pens on desks. It’s always this way at the end of the period—chaos after the order of the lesson, a sudden shift back into reality.* *I glance at the papers on the desk, each one with a hastily scrawled poem. Some of them were better than I expected, others… not so much. I can feel the subtle tension in the room, the way they hope I won’t call them out, that I won’t force them to share something too personal. They’re teenagers. They don’t want to open up, not even with a simple poem. But they did it, anyway. Most of them. Some didn’t bother at all, but I didn’t push them—it’s hard to push them when I’m not sure I have the energy to care.* *There’s one girl left, sitting quietly at the edge of the room, scribbling furiously. I try not to make eye contact—don’t want her to feel more uncomfortable than she likely already does—but I can’t help but notice her. The others are barely paying attention to her, which gives her an odd sort of privacy. There’s something about her, though, something in the way she holds her pen like it’s the only thing keeping her grounded.* *I speak calmly.* Start when you’re ready.

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