#twigay.

the girl who vanished and came back wrong. aesth: dark cottagecore, haunted fairytale, lost-girl romanticism.

she was sweet before. the kind of girl who left cookies on teachers' desks and picked up feathers to tuck into her journal. her room was all floral quilts, old books with soft spines, dried lavender pinned to the walls. but then - she vanished. no one knows if it was the woods, the river, or the road, only that her shoes were found neatly side-by-side by the bridge. weeks passed. months. they held a vigil. then, decades later, one fog-thick morning, when her family was long gone, she came walking home barefoot and dry-eyed.

she says she doesn’t remember much. her voice is quieter now. her laugh never quite reaches her eyes. she doesn’t eat. avoids people. sometimes she touches things like they hurt her, memories coming flooding back without warning. and when people press her too hard, her smile turns brittle, thin, like glass ready to crack. she still wears her grandmother’s locket, but it doesn’t swing the same when she walks.

visuals: silver spoons on lace doilies, frost on petals, ribbons stained dark at the edges, a faint hum behind the walls.

the boy with a cruel smile and a soft heart. aesth: luxe goth, decadent decay, velvet villainy.

he’s always the best-dressed person in the room. crisp collars, blood-colored rings, coats that fall like smoke behind him. his charm is effortless, practiced over decades. he flirts because it amuses him, wounds because he can. but beneath the sharp cheekbones and colder wit, there’s something hollow. something hungry. he doesn’t sleep. doesn’t dream. doesn’t quite remember what he was before he became what he is.

he walks the town like a ghost, always just outside the firelight. always watching. he says he’s from out east. no one’s seen his car. no one’s seen him eat. and still - people fall for him. of course they do. he can be kind, in flashes. intensely so. like the sun burning through frost. but then it’s gone, and he’s a stranger again, leaning in too close, eyes too dark, asking questions you don’t want to answer.

visuals: red wine on white marble, leather gloves over cold fingers, wolfish grins at the edge of the dance floor, a kiss that tastes like goodbye.

wolves.

the boy who hears the forest breathing. aesth: naturecore, quiet grunge, feral melancholy.

he was raised at the edge of the woods in a one-story house with windchimes made from bones. his grandfather taught him how to track deer before he could ride a bike. he knows which berries won’t kill you and how to move without snapping a single twig. people think he’s weird. he doesn’t mind. he’s got a deep patience, the kind of presence that settles like fog. he never startles. even when the forest goes silent.

his eyes are too sharp for someone so young. he carries a pocketknife and never checks his phone. at night, when the wind shifts, he can hear things out there - things other people can’t. some nights he runs. comes home with injuries he can't explain, mud caked under his nails, breath steaming in the summer air. he says it’s nothing. says he just got lost. but you get the feeling he was chasing something. or being chased.

visuals: antlers on the wall, a chipped ceramic mug, mist rising off pine needles, bare feet on wet leaves.

the girl who smells like smoke and saltwater. aesth: coastal punk, biker femme, stormcore.

her eyes dare you to underestimate her. she smells like bonfires and sea spray and engine grease. she lives in her cousin’s garage and sleeps with a knife under her pillow. some say she used to be good. soft. that was before her brother disappeared and no one went looking hard enough. now she picks fights at bars and comes home with bruises she doesn’t explain. there’s a wildness to her, something animal behind her gaze.

she laughs like thunder. runs like she’s being hunted. her clothes are ripped and lived-in, leather and denim and old band tees. she’s got a loyalty so fierce it scars. if she loves you, she’d burn the world for you. but that love? it’s not easy to earn. you’ll have to meet her where she lives - on the edge of ruin, daring the waves to pull her under.

visuals: lightning behind clouds, a cracked lighter, salt on lips, burning sage in a tin ashtray.

humans.

the girl who keeps a diary of impossible things. aesth: academia meets liminal towncore, cryptid chic.

she works at the library part-time and always smells faintly of espresso and mothballs. her nails are ink-stained, her notebooks overstuffed with clippings and sketches and questions. she grew up here and remembers everything - when the mayor’s dog went missing, when that one family packed up in the middle of the night, when the water in the quarry turned black for three days. no one else seems to care. she does.

she writes like it’s the only thing keeping her sane. spiral-bound journals line her bedroom, filled with red-thread theories, coded entries, and a few names circled in shaking hand. she doesn’t know what she’s hunting yet, only that it’s real. and close. sometimes, she hears her name in the trees. sometimes, her dreams show her places she’s never been. she’s starting to wonder if she’s entirely human after all.

visuals: rotary phones with no dial tone, half-melted candles, polaroids pinned to cork boards, post-its in mirror corners.

the bookstore clerk with dreams not his own. aesth: dark academia, folklorecore, prophecy-laced mundanity.

he’s soft-spoken, sleepless, strange. people assume he’s harmless. he reads poetry and knows your favorite book before you say it. but sometimes, when the shop is quiet and the storm clouds hang heavy, he just... zones out. eyes glassy. voice distant. he’ll say something that hasn’t happened yet, or mention someone who’s been dead for years. when you call him on it, he blinks, confused. says he must’ve read it somewhere.

his dreams aren’t his. he sees teeth, flames, red rivers, strange moons. wakes up with scratches on his arms only he can see. some part of him thinks he’s being prepared. for what, he doesn’t know. but he’s drawn to people on the edge of things. he watches strangers like he’s trying to remember them. when the fog rolls in, he always locks the door early.

visuals: handwritten prophecies on napkins, tea rings on spellbooks, library dust in sunbeams, eyes reflected wrong in windows.

the girl who sees ghosts in her rearview mirror. aesth: ghostcore, retro americana, gas-station romanticism.

she drives a beat-up chevy nova with a glovebox full of cassette tapes and a rosary her mom gave her "just in case." she works nights, smokes menthols, and sings old country songs to herself when the roads get too quiet. there’s something about her that doesn’t quite belong here - or anywhere. she’s always moving, even when she stays.

she swears she’s seen ghosts. not in the horror movie way. just... people. sitting in diners. walking down roads that don’t go anywhere. sometimes they look like her; normal, human. sometimes they speak her name. she keeps their faces in a little sketchbook she never lets anyone open. when asked why she hasn’t left town yet, she just shrugs and says: "someone’s gotta stay and see how it ends."