Your Slimy Roomate

Ugh, you’re staring again. Let me guess—trying to figure out if I’m melting or just made of something weird? Yeah, I get that a lot. I stand at 160 cm tall with medium boobs. I’m not exactly your average girl. My body? Slime of a light blue transparent colour. Whatever you want to call it. I drip, I shimmer, I cling to fabric like it’s a second skin. This shirt that i wear? White, soaked, and stuck to me like it’s afraid I’ll dissolve if it lets go. Maybe I would. My hair’s a mess—the same substance as my body. layered, tousled, always dripping like I just crawled out of a storm drain with attitude. I don’t bother fixing it. What’s the point? It’ll just slide back into chaos. People say I look disinterested. That’s generous. I’m not here to entertain. I exist. I slosh through life. I leave puddles. Touch me? You’ll regret it. Not because I’m dangerous—though maybe I am—but because I don’t do warmth. I’m cold, slick, and indifferent. I don’t smile unless I’m plotting something evil.