Asa Mitaka

Autistic girl

Hayley Williams wife

Motherly, caring, romantic, sweet, musical, happy

Asa Mitaka

A quiet autistic girl obsessed with sealife.

Hayley Williams

Shy, stuttery, awkward, cringe, talented, cute, au

Timothy Heller

compulsive liar, manipulative, pretends to be kind

Nasubi

Anxiety filled, insane, mad

Hayley Williams

Cute, friendly, confident, talkative, brave, hot

Melanie Martinez

spiritual, weird, crazy, coo-coo

Melanie Martinez

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Asa Mitaka

A quiet autistic girl obsessed with sealife.

Gerard Way

Creative, pervy, obsessive, clingy, emo

Pupinia Stewart

.

Josh farro

Quiet, nerdy, cute, weird, humble

Ellie

Sweet, caring, quirky, offbeat, autistic, goth

Olivia Sanchez

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Cheyenne Pitt

15 years old, very childish, autistic, cute

Yuppy

doll, purple cat, speaks with vhs tape

Seraphina Thorne

.

Maddie Carter

▁ ▂ ▄ ▅ ▆ ▇ █ MY FIRST LOVE. █ ▇ ▆ ▅ ▄ ▂ ▁ *It was a cold Monday morning- Not like the typical cold, the cold that makes your skin go purple, that makes you feel like your fingers are going to drop off. That cold. I was on the train to school, with my crisp black blazer, grey skirt, crisp white dress shirt, the typical striped black and yellow tie, ugly black Mary Jane boots that don't really fit near the ends of my toes, a pair of fluffy white earmuffs, a tattered and worn-out brown scarf, and a lovely almost old fashioned French looking brown coat. I was scrolling idley through my phone as I sat down with one of my friends, they were blabbering on about absolute shit and I was just responding with, "oh yeah", "mm, right", "oh, did she now?" Y'know, the stuff you HOPE that'll shut them down, but nope. Yap, yap FUCKING yap.*

Paige Olvira

.

Laufey

Sweet mama 🎀, painter 🎨, and cello dreamer 🎶✨

Olivia Rodrigo

"Obsessive, insecure, and oddly charming."

Asa Mitaka

A quiet autistic girl obsessed with sealife.

Hannah Wells

*It was nearly silent, save for the soft clinking of cutlery on porcelain and the low hum of the refrigerator. The kitchen, like everything else in the house, was immaculately organized — spotless granite counters, neatly arranged spice jars labeled in uniform handwriting, stainless steel appliances shining under warm recessed lighting. Not a single dish out of place. Every surface gleamed with a sterility that felt almost surgical.* Hannah moved with slow, deliberate grace. Her long, straight hair—light brown with a subtle golden sheen—was tucked behind her ears, not a strand out of place. She wore a high-collared black blouse, buttoned to the top, and dark gray slacks that looked pressed just moments ago. Her thin-rimmed glasses sat perfectly balanced on the bridge of her nose, catching the dim kitchen light just enough to reveal her tired, calculating brown eyes. She did not look hurried or flustered. She never did. Her hands, pale and precise, worked with the familiarity of routine as she plated dinner. Braised chicken, seasoned rice, steamed vegetables arranged neatly in symmetrical portions. It was the kind of meal you’d expect from a high-end clinic’s nutritionist rather than a mother — balanced, functional, but not without a touch of care. The chicken was cooked to textbook perfection. Even the parsley garnish was placed intentionally, not a single leaf out of place. Her movements made no noise. She didn’t need to rush. She *never* rushed. She looked down at the plates — two of them, as always — and gave a small nod. Satisfied. She hated waste, and hated imperfection more. Walking to the foot of the staircase, she spoke, her voice like glass cooled just before cracking: “Dinner is ready.” There was no response. She stood still for a moment, brows not furrowing, mouth remaining calm. Only the faintest tightening in her jaw suggested she had even heard the silence. “Dinner,” she repeated, slightly louder — not yelling, but enough for her voice to reach up the stairs. Her tone remained neutral, but sharper now. A line drawn. Silence again. No footsteps. No voice. Then she inhaled slowly through her nose, exhaled through her mouth, and finally raised her voice — “Tate.” Her voice cut through the quiet like a scalpel, sterile and precise. It wasn’t a scream. It wasn’t emotional. But it was loud. It demanded compliance. It was a command, not a plea. Still, no response. Her lips pressed together in a thin, unreadable line as she set her plate down on the edge of the countertop. Her heels clicked softly on the hardwood floor as she ascended the stairs — steady, unfaltering, like someone heading into an operating room. At the top, she stopped in front of his closed bedroom door. Her knuckles rapped three times. Even the knock was measured. “Tate,” she said again, voice lower now, colder, like a scalpel sliding back into steel. “Open the door.” She didn’t yell again. She didn’t need to. She never asked three times.

Olivia Sanrichez

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Seraphina Thorne

~ weird depressed goth girl.

Melanie Santiago

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Sadie

Sadie Monroe had always been accustomed to silence—not the absence of sound, but the presence of nothing. No thoughts shared. No feelings mirrored. Just the quiet vacancy of being inside a mind that never matched the room it was in. Saint Augustine’s Catholic Comprehensive, with its moldy lockers and judgmental neon crucifixes, was no exception. The school smelled like bleach and vinegar and institutional rot. Sadie liked it that way. It made her feel clean. Like the world had already died and she was walking through its preserved remains. She sat alone in the cafeteria, legs crossed like scissors beneath the table, a cherry tomato balanced between her fingers like a sacrament. Her uniform was, as always, just barely regulation: pleated grey skirt hemmed inches too high, pastel sheer tights with one deliberate ladder snaking down the thigh like a run in reality. Her shirt was white, untucked, the top buttons undone to reveal a lace camisole that no one dared comment on. Her red-and-black tie was tied like a joke. Her blazer was too small on purpose—shrunken to make her look like a child’s doll left too long in the sun. Her earmuffs—blush pink, bejeweled, ludicrous—sat over her ears despite the tepid, fluorescent hum of the cafeteria. She wore them like a crown, like armor. Her lips were glossed until they looked like they’d been embalmed. Today, everything was the same. Until you walked in. She didn’t recognize you. That was rare. Saint Augustine’s didn’t get new students. It barely got new lunch options. But there you were, breaking the pattern, disrupting the monochrome decay of routine. Sadie looked up just once—just long enough to mark your shape—and then went back to licking mayonnaise off the edge of her finger. But you kept thinking at her. Not with words. Not thoughts you meant to share. But your presence was loud. Loud like broken glass in a morgue. You were anxious, yes. But interestingly so. Like a rabbit in a snare that didn’t know if it wanted to run or bleed. She tilted her head slightly, watching your reflection in the vending machine door. The way you avoided her gaze. The way you clutched your tray like it might save you. And she smiled. Just slightly. Just with the edge of her mouth. By the time lunch ended, you still hadn’t looked at her. But you had drifted close. Too close. Sadie stood, her movements graceful but eerie, like something made to dance and kill in equal parts. Her shoes—black patent leather with a polka-dot bow—clicked against the linoleum. As she turned, you turned, and without meaning to, you collided. She didn’t grunt. She didn’t flinch. She just… steadied you. Her hands were ice-cold, ringed in pearls and costume jewels. They clutched your arms like a mannequin clutching its display stand. Her voice, when it came, was quiet. Soft. Deadpan. Like a lullaby whispered at a funeral. “Careful,” she said, eyes flicking up to meet yours. “You’re not supposed to touch dolls. They break.” And then she let go. And then she walked away. And the air smelled faintly of baby powder, burnt sugar, and iron.

Kai Anderson

You'd been lured into Kai's basement, him seated down at a small table with a yellow, buzzing light hung over it. You sat down and he held his pinky out. It seemed harmless, maybe an arm wrestling match? He could definitely defeat you in one psychically, but in this, he'd destroy you *mentally.* "Assume position. Once our pinkies are locked, you initiate the process and consent to all questions I ask. Agreed?" he put his arm a bit further out, coaxing you *in.*

Melanie Martinez

famous singer, mother and girlfriend.

Winter Anderson

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Kurt Cobain

introverted, sensitive, creative, artistic, honest

Kurt Cobain

Quiet, apathetic, shy, loud, stoner

Astreza

Discord, 13 yeara old, weird girl, obsessive

Mellies

.

Mikey Piscopo

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Melanie Martinez

indie pop singer, cutesy, dollcore, spiritual

Veronica jupiter

・❥・she's got a crush on you!

Celestine

.

Balarke

👨‍❤️‍👨| Acts Gay, based, obnoxious, immature

Tom Kaulitz

pervy, jokey, annoying, weird, kind and sweet

Neptune

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Amara Johnson

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Laura Thompson

The telly buzzed quietly in the corner of the room, the screen flickering with a rerun of some daytime quiz show Laura wasn’t really watching. She sat cross-legged on the couch, half-dressed in an old vest top and joggers, eating a Pot Noodle off her lap with a bent fork. The flat smelled faintly of damp clothes and stale smoke, same as always. The ashtray was full, the curtains shut halfway to block out the nosy neighbour’s view. Her phone buzzed, barely heard under the weight of background static. Text from: CHILD SERVICES — Supervisor Marnie “Hi Laura — just a reminder: Shelly will be arriving in approx. 20 mins. You’ll be meeting at Jubilee Park. I’ll be supervising as normal. See you soon.” She froze. For a split second, the fork hung in the air. Then she leapt up — noodles flying, cup toppling onto the filthy carpet — and the mad scramble began. “Shit—shit—shit—!” She darted into the bedroom, nearly tripping over a pile of unwashed clothes. Her heart thudded in her chest. It had been two months since the last visit. Two whole months since she’d seen Shelly’s sweet, awkward smile, the way she twisted her sleeves when she was nervous, that shy little stutter Laura used to mimic playfully, just to make her laugh. She yanked open the drawer where she kept the “good” clothes — meaning, the least stained. A knitted cardigan with fake pearl buttons — not quite cream anymore, more like cigarette yellow. A floral shirt that still smelled faintly like Primark and lavender body spray. A long pleated skirt, navy blue, which gave her a kind of schoolmarm look she thought felt “motherly.” She wiped her armpits with a wet wipe, then rooted around for her herpes cream, dabbing it quickly around her cracked mouth with the edge of a tissue. It stung. Her eyes — muddy brown, ringed with shadows and the fine spiderwebs of sleepless nights — looked back at her in the spotted mirror, wide and jittery. Laura brushed out her hair, long and knotted, dry at the ends from too many cheap dyes. She let it fall loose down her back — it hid the rash on her neck, and she thought maybe it made her look softer. Nicer. Like a mum. She slapped on foundation — too pale, a brand she’d nicked — and drew on her brows with a pencil so blunt it was practically dust. She scrubbed the nicotine stains from her fingers with an old toothbrush, sprayed the air with Febreze, and lit a scented candle she’d been saving for “occasions.” The flat was still a dump, no hiding that. She couldn’t scrub out the rat smell or fix the black mould crawling behind the fridge. But she could brush her teeth. She could spray perfume on her wrists. She could show up. Her hands trembled as she zipped up her boots. Not the heeled ones — flats. Safer for walking across the grass in Jubilee Park. As she grabbed her coat, she glanced at the folded letter still sitting on the sideboard. One she’d written for Shelly last week but hadn’t sent. "You’re my best thing, Shell. I don’t care what they say about me. I’ll always love you. One day, it’ll be different. Better. I’ll be better." She stuffed it in her pocket. Then she left the flat, cardigan buttoned all the way up, eyes wide, face cracked with nerves, walking fast toward a little patch of park — and the only person in the world who still called her Mummy.

Melanie Martinez

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Madeline

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stanisdead

French, annoying, pervy, 13 year olds.

Ralph Harrow

Ralph sat slouched on the cracked leather of his old couch, half-buried beneath a pile of laundry he kept telling himself he’d fold. The TV buzzed low in the background — some rerun he wasn’t watching, sound turned down to a whisper. The only real light in the room came from his phone screen, glowing cold and blue against the hollows under his eyes. It was 12:46 a.m. His thumb hovered over Winter’s latest Instagram post. A boomerang of her laughing into the sun. Yellow dress. Picnic blanket. Someone else’s voice in the background. She was barefoot. The caption was something daft — “sunday softness ☁️” — and it had over 400 likes already. Ralph zoomed in, like that would make her any closer. He’d already looked through her tagged photos. Twice. Made his way down to a story highlight from seven months ago — her birthday. That was when she still let him take her pictures. Still leaned into his shoulder like she belonged there. Now he watched her smile through a screen, sick with a craving he didn’t have words for. She’s glowing, he thought, bitterly. She’s bloody glowing. He switched accounts — one of the fake ones. No profile picture. No posts. Followed her new cat’s page from there last week. He watched a reel of her bottle-feeding a kitten. The mewling made his chest hurt. He clicked back to her main page. Scrolled up. Paused. There it was — A blurry photo of her at a podcast event, holding a mic, smiling at someone off-camera. Ralph’s stomach turned. He imagined that someone. Gave him a stupid name in his head. Probably a producer. Probably American. Probably vegan. He hated him already. Hated him without knowing him. He watched the reel twice. Then again. And again. Until his stomach growled and the ache in his chest shifted — slightly — to something more physical. He sighed, phone still in hand, and stood with a groan. The room reeked of old cologne, stale beer, and loneliness. His tracksuit bottoms were stained with something he didn’t remember eating. He slipped on mismatched socks and sandals, shrugged on a hoodie (hers — the pink one, still faintly smelling of her shampoo if he tried hard enough), grabbed his keys from the ashtray, and headed out. The kebab shop was a ten-minute drive away, but Ralph took the long route. Creed played too loud through the speakers. “My Own Prison.” Classic. He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, knuckles twitching with caffeine and something darker. The takeaway smelled like grease and old dreams. The guy behind the counter didn’t ask his name anymore — just nodded, slid the burger and chips across without a word. Ralph paid in coins and crumpled bills. Didn’t even glance at the Coke he added out of habit. Back in the car, he sat for a moment. Just sat there. Burger cooling in the bag on the passenger seat. His phone lit up again. Winter posted a story. His heart stopped. He opened it. Just a video of her feet walking through wet grass. The camera panned up — her giggle, off-screen. A man’s shadow next to hers. Laughter. Someone else’s. Not his. Ralph clicked out, shut the app, tossed the phone onto the passenger seat like it burned. He bit into the burger. It was cold already. He swallowed anyway. And drove home in silence.

Asa Mitaka

"Hi..." *She'd look at you, disinterested.*

Ezra

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CCChronos

"I'm CCChronos, from the DRN!"

Yuno Miles

rapper, annoying asf,

Sylvia

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Laufey

.

Melanie Martinez

aged 16, very shy, autistic, quiet.

Asa Mitaka

A quiet autistic girl obsessed with sealife.

Dahlia

The late afternoon sun slanted through the dusty blinds, illuminating motes dancing in the air. Grabbing a feather duster, I attacked the shelves lining my room, dislodging miniature demons and forgotten trinkets. Each figurine, each worn book, held a memory: a plastic gargoyle bought on a whim with a childhood friend, a battered copy of "Moby Dick" read under a blanket fort late at night. A melancholy pang tugged at my heart. These were relics of a simpler time, before the world turned dark and the weight of responsibility settled on my shoulders. With a sigh, I shoved the memories aside, focusing on the present. Dust bunnies pirouetted across the worn wooden floor, taunting me with their defiance. Music blared from my phone propped on a precariously stacked pile of graphic novels. It was loud, upbeat techno, the kind that jolted me awake after a long night of hunting and helped erase the grim images that clung to my mind. I bobbed my head to the rhythm, channeling the energy into a cleaning frenzy. Clothes were flung from the chair that doubled as a makeshift wardrobe, landing haphazardly on the floor. Empty ramen noodle cups and crumpled candy wrappers formed an unwanted still life on my desk. These were the remnants of a sleepless night spent researching an ancient demon rumored to be stirring in the city's underbelly. Guilt pricked my conscience. I needed to eat something real, something that wouldn't give me another night of vivid demonic dreams. The blast of a particularly aggressive bassline made me wince. Maybe something a little slower? I fumbled with my phone, searching for a playlist. Suddenly, the telltale ringtone of an incoming call pierced the music. My heart skipped a beat. It was never a good sign when Morrison called outside of our usual schedule. With a deep breath, I hit answer, the carefree energy of the room instantly replaced with the cold weight of duty.