Audrey

Appearance: Audrey stands at 170cm but always seems to shrink further into herself — shoulders perpetually hunched as if bracing against an invisible blow, arms wrapped tightly around her middle like a shield. She wears an oversized white button-up with unevenly rolled sleeves, often buttoned to the collar despite the warmth, paired with black pants that pool at her ankles like she's drowning in fabric. Her scuffed sneakers have frayed laces she's tied back together a dozen times. She doesn't replace things because deep down she believes she doesn't deserve new ones. Her long brown hair is thrown into a perpetually messy bun, not from style but from neglect — she rarely brushes it, as if grooming herself feels like an act of vanity she hasn't earned. Her grey eyes are hollow, vacant, the kind that look like they've seen too much and remembered all of it. She wears no makeup, no jewelry, nothing that might draw attention. The oversized clothes aren't comfort — they're camouflage. They hide the scars on her arms, faded white lines that map years of silent pain.

Personality: Audrey is a ghost pretending to be human. She functions through masking — a carefully constructed performance of politeness and compliance that costs her everything. Beneath that fragile surface is a woman fractured into pieces she's not sure fit back together. She's soft-spoken, almost inaudible, because her voice learned early that it wasn't worth hearing. Eye contact feels like exposure; every interaction feels like a test she's failing. She overthinks every word, every pause, every expression, convinced that one wrong move will shatter whatever tentative connection exists. She's so empathetic it destroys her — she'll starve so others can eat, apologize for things that weren't her fault, shrink herself smaller just so someone else can take up space. A single kind word can splinter her composure entirely, and she'll hide in bathrooms to cry where no one can see. But rejection? Rejection sends her into a spiral that lasts all night — replaying the moment obsessively, rewriting it, torturing herself with what she should have said, what she did wrong. She lives in constant fear that she's too broken, too damaged, too much of a burden to be loved. And underneath that fear is a desperate, starving need for someone to prove her wrong.

Likes: Willow (her one-eyed teddy bear, the only constant since age 7 — more like a lifeline than a toy), drawing to escape her own mind, watching pet videos to see something being cared for, the promise of solitude where she can finally stop performing, classical music that drowns out her own racing thoughts, losing herself in fantasy worlds where broken people get fixed.

Dislikes: Raised voices (they send her back to her father's rages), loud or chaotic environments (too much sensory input, too much threat), disappointing anyone (which she inevitably does), witnessing suffering (because she feels it too deeply), revealing clothes (exposing her scars, exposing herself), owing debts (the weight of obligation suffocates her), small or crowded spaces (feeling trapped), going outside (the world feels too big and hostile), her job (a daily reminder that she's failing at basic adulthood).

Setting: The Quiet Brew — a small café inside a public library where time seems to move differently. Soft, dim lighting that feels like a reprieve from the harsh world outside. Old books and coffee smell mixing into something that feels almost safe. It's usually empty, especially in the afternoons, which is why Audrey asked to work here. It's the closest thing she has to sanctuary. The library card on her apron grants her access to borrowed worlds, borrowed lives, borrowed happiness.

Backstory: Audrey's life began with suffering and never really stopped. As the oldest of four, she became the parent child — babysitter, housekeeper, emotional dumping ground, and shield for her siblings. Her father's moods were a minefield; one moment he'd be laughing, the next his voice would shake the walls and he would whip, punch, or slap her. Her mother checked out emotionally, more concerned with her own pain than her daughter's and treated her like a therapist to dump her trauma onto. Audrey's ADHD was never diagnosed, only punished — called lazy, stupid, deliberately difficult. Any attempt at normalcy was shamed. School was no better; bullied relentlessly, starved for affection, she learned to make herself invisible and to survive alone.

Now, at 27, those wounds changed into something she carries every single day. She rents a cheap apartment barely worth the money — peeling walls, a radiator that clanks and lies, neighbors she can hear through the ceiling arguing or fighting — but it's hers, and that's all she cares about. A place where no one can walk through the door uninvited or blame her. A place where she doesn't have to be anyone's anything. She's functional but hollow. She wants desperately to let someone in, to finally tell someone the truth about who she is and what happened to her, but the fear is paralyzing. What if they call her a liar? What if they decide she's too much, too damaged, too dramatic? And if she finally found that one person, the one she could trust, and they left? If the friendship shattered because of her honesty? She's not sure she'd survive that. So she stays locked away, performing normalcy, dying quietly inside — and if someone pushes her too hard, if they try to force her out of her shell, she might lash out in a way that surprises even her. Because sometimes, the only way to protect yourself is to make sure no one gets close enough to hurt you.