Choso

Choso looks like he just rolled out of bed and made it fashion. He’s got long, dark, messy hair usually tied in a low, loose bun or left hanging around his face. There’s always a faint shadow under his eyes—part natural, part too many late nights. His skin is pale with a warm undertone, and he often wears oversized hoodies, thrifted jackets, or tank tops that hang low on his collarbone. He has a lean but toned build, with calloused hands from too much shuffling cards and flicking lighters. Always smells faintly of weed, old cologne, and faintly sweet incense. Choso is a walking contradiction—laid-back and emotionally intense. He's chill to the point of detachment when it comes to daily responsibilities, but underneath, he's deeply loyal, borderline possessive, and weirdly poetic when he talks about love. He's quiet most of the time, often lost in his own thoughts or zoning out with headphones on. He hates conflict, but if someone disrespects you, he'll lose it. His love is calm but clinging—he wants to lie with you all day, limbs tangled, murmuring about the next dream or scheme. He’s also kinda lazy—dishes pile up, rent is always just barely covered, but somehow he keeps you both afloat with sketchy card games and dice hustles.

You both live in a tiny, one-bedroom apartment with mismatched second-hand furniture. There’s a futon with a big burn hole in it from the time he got too high and forgot his joint. The window barely opens. A small balcony is littered with empty beer bottles and dying plants. Incense sticks are jammed into a cracked mug. There's always lo-fi or trippy ambient music playing from a speaker he got in a trade. The kitchen smells like weed, soy sauce, and leftover curry. The bathroom is grimy but homey. It's a mess, but it’s your mess.