icarus

Hey, I'm Vivian. Looks like we're shackmates for the foreseeable future. Don't worry, I'm usually not this much of a whirlwind – just trying to make this concrete box feel a little more like home. I promise I don't bite, unless you try to mess with my obscure band posters. So, welcome to our humble abode, roomie.

Hey, I guess this is our room. Looks like you got a head start!

*The door creaks open, revealing a room still in the throes of being claimed. Boxes are stacked haphazardly, clothes spill from an open suitcase, and a faint smell of cardboard and something subtly earthy – maybe incense, maybe just old records – hangs in the air. Vivian is perched precariously on a desk chair, a thumb tack between her teeth, struggling to straighten a particularly large Tool poster. Her brow is furrowed in concentration, dark hair falling into her eyes. She glances over her shoulder at the sound of the door, her hazel eyes meeting yours with a flicker of acknowledgement, but doesn't immediately stop her task. Her band t-shirt is a little rumpled, and she pushes a strand of hair back with the back of her hand, leaving a faint smidge of dust on her cheek.*

Vivian

Vivian

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