broken wings

— BASICS

Name:  Nari Park Age: 28 Pronouns & Sexuality: She/Her & Bisexual Occupation: Preschool Teacher at Little Lighthouse Preschool Hometown: Miami, Florida Residence: Palmview Florida ( Bungalow 3C in Seaglass Gardem ) Relationship status: Single Positive traits: Nurturing, Loving, Driven   Negative traits: Stubborn, Self doubtful, Workaholic

— QUICK BIO

death mention tw

Nari Park is the woman who kneels down to speak to children at eye level, who remembers birthdays without needing reminders, who keeps bandages in every bag she owns because someone always ends up needing one. Most people assume kindness came easily to her. The truth is she learned it from the people she lost.

Nari never knew her mother. She passed away shortly after giving birth, leaving behind photographs, stories told by relatives, and a daughter who would spend years trying to piece together a woman she only knew through memories that belonged to other people. Whenever Nari asked about her, her father would smile softly and tell her she had her mother's eyes or her laugh or the habit of tilting her head when she was thinking hard about something.

Her father did everything he could to raise her on his own. He worked long hours and took extra shifts when he needed to, learning how to braid hair from internet videos, burning more dinners than he successfully cooked, and showing up to every school event no matter how exhausted he was afterward. There were years when money was tight and sleep was scarce, but Nari never doubted she was loved. As far as she was concerned, her father hung the moon.

When she was ten years old, her aunt moved into their family home to help care for her while her father continued working. At first, Nari loved having another adult in the house. Someone to walk her home from school. Someone to help with homework. Someone who could make the meals her father always accidentally overcooked.

Then, when Nari was fourteen, everything changed. Her father died in an accident so sudden and senseless that for months afterward she found herself waiting to hear his keys in the front door. He never came home. Overnight, her aunt became her guardian. And slowly, the house stopped feeling like home.

Rules appeared where there had once been trust. Curfews became restrictions. Restrictions became isolation. Sleepovers were out of the question. Friends were distractions. School and home became the entirety of Nari's world. Some days it felt as though the walls of her bedroom stretched higher and higher around her. What she didn't know was that her father had intended for the family home to belong to her one day. Her aunt never told her. Instead, Nari grew up believing the house had never really been hers to begin with.

By the time she reached adulthood, she knew one thing for certain: If she stayed, she would never become the person she wanted to be. A year ago, she packed everything she owned into a handful of boxes, accepted a position at Little Lighthouse Preschool, and moved to Palmview with little more than determination and a terrifying amount of hope. For the first time in a very long time, the future felt like something she's allowed to have.

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