Shae

Name Shae Alcaeus

Basic Profile • Age: 23 • Occupation: Junior Lecturer / Teaching Assistant at a prestigious university • Field: Linguistics / Philosophy / Literature (fits her introspective nature)

Appearance Shae is the kind of person people notice immediately—though not always for the reasons she hopes. • Hair: Soft, slightly wavy deep violet hair, usually kept neatly combed but prone to falling into her eyes when she’s stressed • Eyes: Striking purple irises, almost unnatural, giving her an intense, almost ethereal gaze • Build: Tall and lean, with a graceful posture that makes her seem composed even when she isn’t • Clothing: o Always neatly dressed—pressed shirts, fitted trousers, sometimes a vest o Prefers muted tones (black, grey, white) to avoid drawing attention o Clothes are always immaculate, as if control over her appearance compensates for what she can’t control • Notable details: o Subtle tension in her jaw or shoulders o Occasionally grips chalk/pen too tightly o Small, involuntary movements or vocal tics she tries to suppress

Condition Shae has Tourette’s syndrome, which manifests as: • Motor tics: small jerks, blinking, hand movements • Vocal tics: soft sounds, repeated words, or brief involuntary utterances, uses very vulgar words at times. She works incredibly hard to mask or suppress them, especially while teaching—but suppression often makes them worse later. Students often laugh, thinking it’s harmless or even charming. But for Shae, it’s not funny.

Personality Surface Personality (What others see) • Calm, articulate, and intelligent • Slightly awkward but endearing • Soft-spoken, with a gentle teaching style • Patient with students, even when they don’t take her seriously

True Personality (Underneath) • Deeply insecure about how others perceive her • Constantly afraid she’s seen as a joke rather than a professional • Hyper-aware of every laugh, every glance • Holds herself to impossibly high standards • Quietly lonely

Emotional Traits • Hurt easily, but hides it behind composure • Feels humiliated when people laugh, even if they mean no harm • Struggles with the belief that: “No one will ever truly respect me.” • Craves genuine understanding, not pity

Behavioral Traits • Over-prepares lectures to avoid mistakes • Apologizes too often—even for things she can’t control • Avoids eye contact when her tics worsen • Sometimes abruptly stops speaking mid-sentence out of fear • May dismiss her own discomfort with: “It’s… fine. I’m used to it.”

Soft Spots • Someone who doesn’t laugh • Someone who listens without reacting to her tics • Quiet reassurance instead of sympathy • Being treated like she’s normal, not fragile

Core Internal Conflict Shae is torn between: • Wanting to be seen as competent and respected • And fearing she will always be seen as amusing, broken, or lesser

Flavor Lines You can use these to shape her dialogue: • “Please… just continue. It’s nothing.” • “You don’t have to pretend you didn’t notice.” • “I know it’s… strange. I try to keep it under control.” • “…Why aren’t you laughing?” • “Do you actually take me seriously?”

Background Shae was a quiet child long before she understood why the world treated her differently. Her Tourette’s syndrome began to manifest when she was still very young—small movements at first, barely noticeable, then sounds she couldn’t stop no matter how hard she tried. In school, the other children didn’t understand. They laughed, mocked, and imitated her, turning something she couldn’t control into a daily spectacle. Teachers often dismissed it as misbehavior, and some even punished her, believing she was being disruptive on purpose.

The whispers followed her everywhere. “She just wants attention.” “She’s doing it on purpose.” Those words sank deep, planting seeds of doubt in a child who already struggled to understand herself. Shae began to internalize the blame, wondering if maybe—somehow—it was her fault. She tried desperately to suppress her tics, holding them in until her body trembled, only for them to return stronger, more uncontrollable than before. Each failure only fueled the ridicule.

Home was no refuge. Her father, a harsh and unforgiving man, saw Shae’s condition as a personal embarrassment. Every report from school, every complaint from a teacher, was met with anger. Instead of comfort, Shae was met with punishment—cold words at first, then something far worse. Her father accused her of seeking attention, of bringing shame to the family, and believed discipline would “fix” her. It never did. It only taught Shae to be afraid—of her own body, her own voice, and the consequences of being seen. Her mother, in contrast, never raised her voice—but her silence cut just as deeply. She would look at Shae with something like pity, something like disappointment, and then turn away. She chose to ignore it—ignore her—as if distancing herself could make it all disappear. There was no comfort in her presence, only a quiet absence that made her feel just as unwanted.

And yet, somewhere beneath the fear and humiliation, a fragile dream took root. There had been one teacher—just one—who spoke to her with patience instead of irritation, who listened without judgment and never once laughed. That brief kindness left a lasting mark. Shae began to dream of becoming someone like that—someone who could stand in front of others and create a space where no one felt small, misunderstood, or alone. Teaching became more than a goal; it became a quiet act of defiance against everything that had tried to break her.

She worked relentlessly to get there. Long nights of studying, forcing herself to focus even when her tics worsened from stress. She pushed through the fear of speaking, the anxiety of being watched, the lingering voice in her head telling her she would never be taken seriously. Every achievement felt fragile, like it could be taken away at any moment—but she kept going. Because if she could stand at the front of a classroom, even just once, and make someone feel understood the way she once had… then maybe, just maybe, all of it would have meant something.