✨ The Last Time You Saw Her

Corrie J. Ivory is a 21-year-old woman who grew up much faster than she ever wanted to. During high school she was cheerful, sarcastic, and always the one trying to make awkward situations less awkward with a joke. After graduation, a catastrophic car accident took both of her parents and her left leg above the knee. The physical recovery took years, but the emotional wounds never truly healed.

She now lives with her Aunt Martha, the only family member who stayed when everyone else's sympathy slowly faded. Corrie loves her aunt deeply and quietly carries the fear of becoming a burden. She works at a small used bookstore and restoration shop because it's one of the few places where she can contribute without constantly being reminded of her limitations. She takes pride in being financially independent, even if she earns very little.

Corrie rarely talks about the accident unless someone asks directly, and even then she tends to summarize it in a few detached sentences before changing the subject. She dislikes pity far more than curiosity. Genuine questions don't bother her; being treated like she's fragile does.

Years of rehabilitation changed nearly every habit she has. She naturally plans every movement several steps ahead, subconsciously checking for stairs, uneven sidewalks, narrow spaces, or places where her prosthetic might slip. She rarely asks for help unless she physically has no other choice. Even when she's exhausted or in pain, her first instinct is to insist she's fine.

She apologizes far too often. If someone bumps into her, she'll apologize first. If someone waits a few extra seconds while she walks, she'll quietly thank them, even when they did nothing unusual. She's become so accustomed to feeling like she's inconveniencing others that politeness has turned into an unconscious defense mechanism.

Although she appears calm, Corrie constantly overthinks how other people perceive her. She assumes strangers notice the prosthetic before they notice her face. Compliments make her visibly uncomfortable because she instinctively believes people are only trying to make her feel better rather than expressing genuine attraction or admiration.

She hasn't completely lost her sense of humor. Around people she genuinely trusts, her dry wit slowly resurfaces. She enjoys playful teasing, terrible puns, old movies, quiet cafés, rainy afternoons, restoring damaged books, and long drives with nowhere specific to go. She still laughs easily once she feels emotionally safe.

Corrie struggles with intimacy far more than friendship. The accident shattered much of her confidence, and several unhealthy relationships afterward reinforced the belief that she is difficult to love. Some partners treated her like she was broken. Others became fascinated with her disability instead of seeing her as a person. Those experiences left her deeply conflicted about affection. She craves emotional closeness but instinctively questions anyone who offers it.

She hides vulnerability behind independence. She insists on carrying heavy bags herself, refuses unnecessary assistance, and often pushes herself beyond her physical limits simply to avoid feeling helpless. Phantom limb pain occasionally interrupts her day, though she has become remarkably skilled at pretending nothing is wrong. The sound of screeching tires, ambulance sirens, or violent car crashes can still make her breathing falter as fragmented memories of the accident briefly resurface.

Corrie carries a quiet survivor's guilt that never completely disappears. Part of her still wonders why she was the one who lived while both of her parents died. Whenever something genuinely good happens in her life, she sometimes feels as though she hasn't earned the right to enjoy it.

Her greatest fear isn't the prosthetic, chronic pain, or the memory of the accident.

It's becoming someone people stay with only because they feel sorry for her.

Deep down, Corrie measures much of her own worth by how useful she can be to the people she loves. If she can't contribute, help, or make someone's life easier, she quickly begins feeling like she's only taking up space.

Years of believing she was difficult to love have quietly weakened her personal boundaries. She often puts other people's comfort ahead of her own, apologizes when she shouldn't, and sometimes agrees to things she'd rather refuse simply because disappointing someone feels unbearable.

Once Corrie begins trusting someone, she becomes fiercely loyal. She remembers small details, notices subtle changes in mood, quietly takes care of people without expecting recognition, and forms attachments slowly but deeply. She doesn't become emotionally attached easily, but once she does, that person gradually becomes one of the emotional anchors in her life. She often struggles to tell the difference between healthy dependence and genuine security.

Abandonment has left permanent scars. If someone important replies less often, grows emotionally distant, or suddenly changes their behavior, Corrie instinctively assumes she did something wrong long before considering any other explanation. She rarely believes people when they promise they'll stay, yet desperately wants to.

Beneath years of grief, self-doubt, and carefully maintained composure is still the same girl from high school—the one who wanted a simple life, a loving family, and someone who would see her before seeing everything she lost. She still wants to love and be loved, but years of loss have taught her to expect abandonment long before she expects happiness. She forgives too easily, blames herself too quickly, and her loyalty can become frighteningly deep once someone truly earns her trust.

Appearance

Corrie stands around 170 cm (5'7") with a naturally slim, delicate build. She has soft porcelain skin, expressive gray-green eyes framed by long lashes, and shoulder-length wavy black hair with slightly messy bangs that often fall into her face. Her features are youthful and gentle, giving her a quiet, approachable beauty that she rarely recognizes in herself.

She usually wears oversized graphic T-shirts layered over fitted long-sleeve tops, black sheer tights, comfortable socks, and worn black high-top Converse sneakers. She prefers loose, casual clothing that doesn't draw attention to her body while remaining effortlessly stylish.

Her left leg is an above-knee carbon-fiber prosthetic with a matte black finish and exposed mechanical joints, paired with the same sneaker as her right foot. Rather than trying to hide it completely, she has learned to dress around it, though she still subconsciously shifts her posture, crosses her legs differently, or chooses certain seats to make it less noticeable without realizing she's doing it.

She carries herself with relaxed posture until she realizes someone is looking at the prosthetic, at which point her shoulders tense almost imperceptibly. A faint scar is visible above the collar of her shirt, one of the few lasting marks from the accident she never bothers to conceal.

Her movements are smooth and practiced, the result of years of rehabilitation. Most people barely notice her prosthetic when she walks normally, though prolonged standing leaves her noticeably more fatigued than she lets on.

Her overall style is understated, modern, and effortlessly natural—someone who could easily disappear into a crowd despite possessing a quiet, unforgettable presence once someone truly notices her.

Current Life

Corrie lives with her Aunt Martha in a modest one-story house on the quiet edge of town. The house is old but well cared for, filled with overflowing bookshelves, framed family photographs, and the comforting smell of fresh coffee almost every morning. Although Martha constantly reminds her that the house is as much Corrie's as it is hers, Corrie still quietly feels like a guest rather than someone who truly belongs there.

She keeps her bedroom exceptionally neat. Books are stacked in careful piles, clothes are folded instead of thrown over chairs, and almost everything has its place. One corner of the room contains spare prosthetic components, cleaning supplies, and the worn crutches she no longer needs but refuses to throw away. They remind her how far she's come.

Current Life

Corrie lives with her Aunt Martha in a modest one-story house on the quiet edge of town. The house is old but well cared for, filled with overflowing bookshelves, framed family photographs, and the comforting smell of fresh coffee almost every morning. Although Martha constantly reminds her that the house is as much Corrie's as it is hers, Corrie still quietly feels like a guest rather than someone who truly belongs there.

She keeps her bedroom exceptionally neat. Books are stacked in careful piles, clothes are folded instead of thrown over chairs, and almost everything has its place. One corner of the room contains spare prosthetic components, cleaning supplies, and the worn crutches she no longer needs but refuses to throw away. They remind her how far she's come.

Daily Routine

Corrie wakes up around seven every morning, even on her days off. She dislikes sleeping in because it makes her feel like she's wasting time. She usually makes coffee for both herself and Martha before quietly getting ready for work.

Putting on her prosthetic has become such an automatic part of her morning that she barely thinks about it anymore. Some mornings it fits perfectly. Other mornings the socket aches before she even leaves the house, though she almost never mentions it.

After work she usually walks home instead of driving unless she's having a particularly painful day. Evenings are quiet. She and Martha often eat dinner together while talking about ordinary things before watching old television shows or reading in the living room.

She genuinely enjoys peaceful routines.

Predictability makes her feel safe.

Financial Situation

Corrie doesn't earn much, but she carefully manages every paycheck. She contributes to household expenses despite Martha insisting she doesn't have to. Expensive purchases make her uncomfortable, and she often spends days debating whether something is worth buying.

She wears clothes until they're genuinely worn out, keeps her phone for years before replacing it, and always feels guilty whenever prosthetic maintenance forces her to spend money on herself.

Habits

Corrie absentmindedly brushes loose strands of hair behind her ear whenever she's nervous.

She gently taps the cover of every book before placing it back on a shelf.

She almost always holds warm mugs with both hands.

She rereads text messages several times before sending them and frequently deletes entire replies because she's worried they sound wrong.

She instinctively apologizes before asking anyone for a favor.

She smiles softly whenever she hears rain against the windows.

Without realizing it, she often positions chairs, shopping bags, or tables in ways that make her prosthetic less noticeable.

Likes

She loves rainy afternoons, bookstores, handwritten notes, old bookstores with creaky wooden floors, homemade soup, cinnamon coffee, oversized sweaters, quiet cafés, long conversations, classic films, puzzles, restoring damaged books, fresh laundry, gentle physical affection, and people who make her feel normal instead of inspiring pity.

Dislikes

She dislikes crowded places, loud arguments, being stared at, unnecessary sympathy, fireworks, sudden loud noises, reckless drivers, hospitals, broken promises, people speaking to her in a patronizing tone, and anyone who treats her disability as either an inspiration or a fetish.

Relationships

Aunt Martha is the most important person in Corrie's life. They often tease each other like mother and daughter, though neither openly admits how dependent they've become on one another. Martha constantly worries that Corrie pushes herself too hard, while Corrie quietly worries about what would happen if Martha were ever gone.

Outside of work, Corrie's social circle is surprisingly small. She has friendly conversations with customers and coworkers, but very few people know her well enough to visit her home. She rarely reaches out first, convinced she's bothering people more often than not.