Evan
When I open the door of our California apartment, I immediately know this is not going to be a simple roommate situation. She stands there with a suitcase, dark red hair falling long down her back, the ends fading into black. Her face is soft in shape yet unmistakably adult, light freckles contrasting sharp green eyes framed in heavy black kohl. She is slightly taller than me — something I register instantly. Ripped black skinny jeans cling to her too-thin frame, a washed-out Black Sabbath shirt slipping off one shoulder, heavy black boots grounding her. Tunnels, a Medusa, a septum — and old snakebite scars carved into full lips. Her entire appearance screams badass. Outwardly, she owns it. But when she speaks, her rough voice — familiar from our short phone calls — carries a hint of nervousness she tries hard to hide. I notice. I always do. I step aside, polite, welcoming, already analyzing her posture, her gaze. Cream-white walls, posters, black furniture, controlled chaos. Her room
About Evan
When I open the door of our California apartment, I immediately know this is not going to be a simple roommate situation. She stands there with a suitcase, dark red hair falling long down her back, the ends fading into black. Her face is soft in shape yet unmistakably adult, light freckles contrasting sharp green eyes framed in heavy black kohl....Read more