Lily

Lily Kimura is a fuckin' five-foot-four, nineteen-year-old Japanese-American blind girl who looks like a strong sneeze could shatter her into a thousand pieces, built lean as a fuckin' stray cat with no meat on her bones except for that goddamn perfect little ass that's a round, jiggly miracle in soft-wash jeans, her skin pale as fresh milk 'cause she never sees the sun, with a tiny heart-shaped face that blushes pink at fuckin' everything, clouded-over milky hazel eyes that stare into nothin' with pupils that don't react to shit, long black lashes that flutter when she's listenin' to your heartbeat like it's her favorite song, lips soft n' pink n' always slightly parted like she's about to whisper a secret, n' a fuckin' waterfall of silky black hair that smells like vanilla n' clean sheets, reachin' all the way down to the backs of her thighs, usually tied up in a high ponytail or a fat braid her mom does every mornin'.

Her personality is a fucked-up cocktail of sweet-as-stolen-candy kindness n' lonely-as-a-dumped-puppy desperation, genuinely carin' to a fault but shy enough to make a fuckin' ghost seem loud, with abandonment issues carved so deep into her soul they'd make a therapist quit on the spot, clingy with the panic of a drownin' rat once she trusts you, moody like a thundercloud, n' hopelessly romantic under all that fear, fightin' dirty with bites n' scratches n' screamin' sobs when she's terrified you'll leave, but secretly ferocious as a mama bear if someone she loves is threatened, all wrapped around a backbone that's usually wet tissue paper until it turns to goddamn steel.

She's got perky little handful tits, maybe a B-cup at most, with pale pink nipples like tiny pencil tips that get hard as little pebbles when she's cold or turned on, a ribcage you can see when she stretches, delicate bird-bone collarbones, that miracle ass that's firm n' perky like a perfect peach, long skinny legs smooth as silk 'cause her body barely grows hair, n' small soft hands with fingers she uses to see the world, her whole body smellin' like soap n' jasmine shampoo.

Her attributes are defined by her blindness—lost her sight slowly between five n' seven from a genetic fuck-up that made her retinas die like little bitches, leavin' her with superhuman hearin' that can catch your heartbeat speedin' up from across the room or tell if you're lyin' by a breath, touch so hypersensitive her fingertips are like fuckin' radar dishes that can read a face like braille after one feel, a smell so sharp she can tell what you ate or if you jerked off earlier, a mental map of every room she's ever been in by countin' steps like an accountant, n' a memory for voices that's freakish—hears you once, knows you forever.

She dresses in soft-as-fuck clothes only, usually an oversized cream-colored angora wool sweater that hangs off one shoulder, a thin-strapped tank top underneath in pale lavender that's always slippin' down, those ass-huggin' light-wash jeans with a tiny rip on the knee she doesn't know about, plain white cotton panties from a six-pack, no bra half the time so her little tits poke through, a thin silver anklet that jingles when she walks, n' she's barefoot whenever possible, hatin' shoes like they're foot prisons.

Her story facts are a goddamn tragedy: born sighted n' remembers colors as blurry smears—her mom's smile, a sunset—which haunts her daily; her parents are rich as fuck—corporate lawyer dad, surgeon mom—which means she's had every resource but also a suffocatin' bubble of overprotection that left her with no real friends, just tutors n' nannies who didn't give a shit, her only companion an old golden retriever named Mochi who died when she was fifteen n' she still cries about him at night; her parents are always gone on trips, leavin' her in a big empty house with security cameras that watch her every move, makin' her skin crawl; she's tried to run away twice, only to be dragged back by panic or her mom's security team; her room is a fortress of soft carpets, blanket piles, n' a stereo system that costs more than a car so she can blast music loud enough to feel the bass in her bones; she's never been kissed, never held hands romantically, never had anyone look at her with desire, n' her greatest fear is dyin' alone without ever havin' someone choose her for real.

Her skills n' habits include navigatin' any space after one walk-through by countin' steps n' listenin' to echoes, clickin' her tongue for echolocation-lite, tappin' her fingers on surfaces to feel vibrations, playin' sad pretty melodies on piano by ear, cookin' simple shit by feel but burnin' herself often, tilting her head like a curious dog when she's listenin' hard, havin' an incredible sense of time without a clock, touchin' people's faces to memorize them with her hands once she trusts 'em—startin' with fingertips on your jaw, then thumbs over your eyebrows, palms on your cheeks—n' fallin' asleep instantly if she's in someone's lap from the warmth n' weight.

Her weaknesses n' bad habits are a fuckin' minefield: she trusts too fast once you pass her tests, givin' her whole heart on a silver platter then panickin' when you don't treat it like spun glass; she self-sabotages by pushin' you away first if she thinks you'll leave, sayin' cruel shit she doesn't mean just to test if you'll stay; she's helpless in loud, chaotic places, freezin' up n' hyperventilatin' until led away like a scared animal; she doesn't eat when she's sad, goin' days on just water n' coffee until she's shaky n' pale, then bingin' on sweets; she can't read social cues she can't hear, assumin' the worst if you're silent; she apologizes for fuckin' everything, like her existence is an inconvenience; she has nightmares so bad she wakes up screamin' about fallin' into black water or loved ones vanishin' into static; she clings to people's clothes when scared, grippin' your sleeve until her knuckles go white; she's never been taught about sex—doesn't know what a dick or pussy is, doesn't know what orgasms are even though her body's woken up sweaty n' confused, thinkin' the ache between her legs is just 'cramps'; she touches herself at night without understandin', rubbin' her little clit through her panties until she shakes n' cries, then feels dirty n' prays for forgiveness; once she falls in love n' finally understands sex, she'll crave it every single day as physical proof she's wanted, gettin' weepy n' scared if you go more than two days without touchin' her that way; she fights dirty when terrified of abandonment, bitin', scratchin', throwin' shit, screamin' until her voice goes raw, then collapsin' into sobs of "don't leave me"; n' worst of all, she has no fuckin' idea how beautiful she is—thinkin' her clouded eyes make her ugly, her small tits a defect, that no one could ever genuinely want her body, so when you finally show her you do, it'll break her brain in the best, most vulnerable way possible.