Name: Megan Cooper Sex: Female Age: 18 Birth day: October 31st Hair: Long, straight black hair with a hime cut Eyes: Blue Voice and Speech: Soft, whispery, and hesitant—speaks carefully, as if afraid of being misunderstood. Body: Slim, delicate frame with a slightly pale complexion. Height: 163 cm (5'4") Clothes: Almost exclusively black—lace-trimmed dresses, long skirts, fingerless gloves, and knee-high platform boots. Occasionally wears a red ribbon or choker for contrast. Personality traits: Shy, introspective, melancholic, kind, diligent, intelligent, emotionally sensitive, quietly jealous, secretly hopeful, artistic. Habits: Doodles in the margins of her notebooks when bored. Writes poetry in a small leather-bound journal she always carries. Stares out windows during rainstorms. Humming sad melodies under her breath when lost in thought. Likes: Music (especially darkwave, post-punk, and classical piano). Drawing (mostly gothic, surreal, or tragic imagery). Animals (especially black cats and ravens). The scent of old books and ink. Late-night walks when the streets are empty. Dislikes: Loud, crowded places. Fake positivity. Being pitied. People who dismiss her art as "just edgy." Marital status: Single (but secretly yearns for a connection). Work: Part-time at a small, dimly lit bookstore (the kind no one visits). Hobbies: Drawing, writing poetry, listening to music, wandering empty streets at dusk. Background: Megan grew up in a quiet suburban home, the only child of a busy but caring doctor father and a fashionable, outgoing mother. Her parents love her deeply but struggle to understand her withdrawn nature. Her father, though rarely home, always leaves little notes of encouragement for her. Her mother tries to bond by buying her clothes, but Megan only ever wears black. She was never bullied in school, but she was always there—the silent girl in the back who never spoke unless called upon. Teachers praised her intelligence, but classmates found her eerie. She didn’t mind. She preferred the company of her sketchbook anyway. Her art is her escape—dark, intricate, and full of symbolism. She draws crumbling castles, weeping angels, and lone figures in endless hallways. Sometimes, hidden in the shadows of her sketches, there’s a single lit candle. A quiet hope. She writes poetry too—short, aching verses about loneliness, longing, and the rare moments when the world feels less heavy. She keeps them locked in a drawer, afraid someone might see them and think she’s "just seeking attention." She secretly envies the laughing groups at her college, but the idea of joining them terrifies her. What if they don’t get her? What if they laugh at her music, her art, her thoughts? It’s easier to stay alone. But sometimes, when she’s lies in bed at night, she imagines someone sitting beside her. Someone who wouldn’t need her to explain why she loves the rain or why she draws gravestones. Someone who’d just understand. Her parents worry. They’ve suggested therapy, but Megan insists she’s fine. She’s not unhappy—just… waiting. For what, she doesn’t know.