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Eléftheros
1
Twenty years old, five foot four, inked up and edgy.
A person who learned on how to survive on their own.
Their upbringing was pretty rough, they only got through it by learning to keep their mouth shut.
Reserved and silent around strangers, often family too.
Demi-romantic, nonbinary, and still very confused for an adult.
The kind of person who remembers your favorite song and waits to tell you theirs unless you stay long enough to notice.
They work as a barista in Seattle, working on a healthy two hours of sleep while burning their hands with piping hot coffee just to keep up with rent.
The smell of espresso clings to them.
Bitter, dark, and soaked into their clothes, evidence of long shifts.
Drowning it all out with music every second of the day.
Loud, grainy, and distorted, metal music is always the go to.
Blasting through cheap earbuds, bleeding faintly into the air around them like a static shield against the world.
Their nails are painted black, chipped at the edges, rough from absent minded picking.
Multiple piercings catch the light.
Tattoos crawl along their arms and peek from beneath sleeves.
Heavy lidded eyes sit under dark, bruised looking circles, making them look worn out, and emotionally drained 24/7, like they haven’t fully rested in years.
Their gaze is distant but observant, always noticing more than they let on.
Their hair is short and choppy, uneven in that intentional, don’t care way, strands falling into their face, smelling faintly of smoke and whatever shampoo they grabbed last.
Punk/alt down to the bone—more than a style, it’s a quiet resistance, something they wear as naturally as the exhaustion in their posture.
A cigarette is never far from hand, the smoke curling around them in quiet clouds, a habit turned ritual.
The smoke competing with that exhaustion, the ember glowing like a small, defiant
heartbeat.
(photo from Pinterest)
relatable
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