...

[chcrmedhearts]

starter: emma/bennett (@lovedearlove)

𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧

Emma spotted Sloane at the milkshake bar. She walked over, hands in her jacket pockets. “Hey,” she said softly, a little smile tugging up. She nodded toward the booth, eyes gentle, not prying. “You mind if I sit for a second?” A second later Emma slid in across from her, giving Sloane the kind of look only someone who’d known her for years could give. A small, familiar grin. “And also steal a fry if you have any. That, too.”

[chcrmedhearts]

starter: emma/kara (@grxndvoile)

𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧

Emma pushed open the café door with her hip, balancing her sketchbook and a to-go cup that was absolutely too full. She made it two steps before the lid betrayed her and a splash of coffee hit the floor near someone’s shoes. “Oh my god. I'm so sorry.” She froze, staring at the spill like it personally offended her. “I swear I’m usually coordinated. Today just decided otherwise.” She looked up, cheeks a little pink but her smile easy. “Let me get you a drink to make up for the emotional damage of almost ruining your shoes.”

[chcrmedhearts]

starter: emma/zelda (@hallelujahtohell

𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧

Emma hadn’t meant to be in the way, but there she was, standing in the snack aisle staring at two identical bags of popcorn like she was choosing a college major. When she noticed the person next to her waiting, she blinked, stepped aside, and lifted both bags like evidence. “Okay, be honest,” she said, dead serious. “Do you go sweet or salty? Because I’ve been here for ten minutes and I’m starting to spiral.” She offered a small, sheepish smile

[wildestdrexms]

if  there  was  one  thing  that  bennett  loved,  it  was  that  his  siblings  felt  welcome  to  join  him  in  his  home,  no  matter  what.  he  was  more  than  happy  to  have  them  show  up,  whenever  it  was  that  they  wanted  to.  so  when  he  heard  his  sisters  voice,  bennett  couldn't  help  but  smile.  "  you  know  that  you're  not.  you  can  come  whenever  you  wish.  "  he  smiled  as  he  looked  up  to  his  sister.  he  was  even  more  curious  as  he  saw  what  it  was  that  emma  had  in  her  hand.  "  what  is  it?  "  he  asked  as  he  moved  over  to  pick  it  up,  "  a  playlist?  "  he  smiled  a  little  at  that.  it  was  the  thoughtful  gifts  that  bennett  had  always  enjoyed  the  most.  "  yeah,  yeah.  i  figured.  "he  chuckled.  "  there's  some  m&ms  in  the  cupboard.  but  i  need  to  do  a  shop  so  you're  out  of  luck  for  much  else.  "

[chcrmedhearts]

𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧

Emma shook her head, already heading for the cupboard like she’d lived there in a past life. “M&Ms don’t count as snacks, Ben. That’s emergency sugar. That’s ‘I forgot to eat lunch and now I might punch someone’ food.” She grabbed the bag anyway, tore it open, and popped a few into her mouth like she hadn’t just insulted them. “You act like I don’t know your shopping schedule,” she said, leaning her hip against the counter. “You buy groceries like twice a month and then pretend it’s a personality. I’m not judging. I’ve adapted.” Her eyes flicked toward the playlist he’d picked up, and a small, proud grin tugged at her mouth. “You better actually listen to that, by the way. I put effort into it. Like actual real effort. I got emotional about song order. It was embarrassing.” She tossed an M&M at him, not even aiming well. “Anyway, I’m here now,” she said, settling in comfortably, like the whole world was supposed to rearrange around that fact. “So whatever mood you were in before I barged in? Update it. We’re hanging out.

[newdcys]

STARTER (CLOSED) EMMA & LILY

@chcrmedhearts

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Lily kicked the apartment door shut with her heel, arms full of grocery bags she definitely shouldn’t have carried all at once.She rounded the corner into the living room and froze with a grin when she spotted her. she grinned wide, bright, lazy. “Oh thank god, you’re home. I need to emotionally decompress about literally nothing and also maybe steal your blanket.” she said, dropping the bags onto the couch without a shred of care. “Okay, so, I got us snacks, wine, and a plant I definitely didn’t need but it was on sale, so… mentally I’m calling it a tax write-off.” She flopped next to her, already stealing one of Emma’s throw pillows to hug. “What are we doing tonight? Being productive? Being delusional? Ignoring our responsibilities until they cry?” She nudged her with her shoulder, eyes bright and mischievous. “Because whatever it is, I’m in.”

[chcrmedhearts]

𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧

Emma glanced up the second Lily kicked the door shut, already shaking her head like she’d been expecting this exact scene. “You’re going to throw your back out one of these days,” she said, getting up just enough to take one of the bags before it slid to the floor. “And I’m not helping you fill out the paperwork when it happens.” She set the bag on the coffee table and eased back onto the couch, pulling the blanket over her lap while Lily made herself comfortable like she owned the place. Which, technically, she did. Half of it, anyway. “You did not need another plant,” Emma said, deadpan but not unkind. She inspected it anyway, turning the pot in her hands like she was already mentally assigning it a spot in the apartment. “But sure. We’ll pretend it’s an investment.” She shifted over to give Lily more room, leaning shoulder to shoulder like it was second nature. “So. Tonight.” Emma’s voice had that steady, unbothered tone she used when she’d already made peace with doing nothing. “I wasn’t planning on being productive, so you’re in luck.” She tipped her head toward Lily, a small smile pulling at the corner of her mouth. “I could ignore responsibilities until tomorrow. Or the next day. Whatever works.”

[chcrmedhearts]

starter: emma/bennett (@wildestdrexms)

𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧

Emma didn’t bother texting first. She knocked once out of courtesy and pushed the door open with her foot, already halfway inside before she even called out.“Hey,” she said, stepping inside like it was the most natural thing in the world. “Hope I’m not crashing whatever you had going on.” She had pencil smudges along her fingers again, but she didn’t seem to notice. She held up a folded piece of paper, waving it a little. “I brought you something. Well, more like I made you something.” She dropped the playlist sheet onto his counter with an easy flick of her wrist. “Use it in the morning, at night, whenever. Just don’t lose it. I’m not printing you another one.” She wandered a few steps deeper into the room, scanning it with the casual familiarity of someone who’s been in and out of this place a hundred times. Her smile when she finally looked at him was simple, almost automatic, the kind of smile siblings have without thinking. “Hi, Ben. I’m hanging out here for a bit,” she said, matter-of-fact, like she’d already made the decision on the way over. “Hope you’ve got snacks.”

[chcrmedhearts]

full name: Emma Caroline Grant nicknames: Em, Emmie age: 26 birthday: March 18 zodiac: Pisces pronouns: she/her orientation: bisexual, soft femme-leaning hometown: Cider Point, MA occupation: Evening radio host + segment producer at Cider Point FM

mbti: INFP

enneagram: 4w5

temperament: melancholic-sanguine

alignment: neutral good

aesthetic: soft coastal indie, sketchbook girl, warm static + late-night broadcasts

She was born and raised in Cider Point, the kind of coastal town that feels too small and too big at the same time. As a kid, she blended into the background easily—not invisible, just quiet. The kind of girl adults called “sweet” while overlooking the way she absorbed every emotion in the room like a sponge. She grew up in a family with grounded, the kind of dependable presence that made the house feel anchored. As the youngest of three she always had someone to help or lean on. Even now, she doesn’t lean on them loudly, but she carries the comfort of knowing they both still show up in the ways they always have: consistently, quietly, without needing thanks.

For as long as she could hold a pencil, she drew. First in coloring books, then on homework margins, then in sketchbooks she guarded like they were made of glass. She filled them with faces, neighbors, strangers at the diner, the expressions of her brothers made when they thought no one was watching. Art was never a performance for her; it was documentation. A quiet way of understanding the world without having to translate her thoughts into words she didn’t always have. Teachers praised her neat handwriting, but they didn’t notice the portraits blooming on the edges of worksheets. She didn’t draw for approval; she drew because looking closely soothed her.

Growing up, she was the good kid—the easy one—the one who got straight A’s and never made a scene. On the surface, that made life simple. In reality, it meant she learned early to bury anything that felt inconvenient. Anxiety, overwhelm, exhaustion… all neatly folded and tucked away. She loved school in the way quiet girls do—the routine, the predictability—but she loved stories even more. Not just books: voices, strangers, moments, overheard conversations. She became the girl who always had headphones on, not to block the world out, but to catalogue it. She listened to local radio religiously, not for the music but for the feeling that someone out there was speaking into the quiet. She drew while she listened, her pencil moving automatically as voices filled the room.

Unlike most of her classmates, she never pictured leaving Cider Point after graduation. The idea of uprooting her life felt like a weight pressing on her chest. And staying wasn’t failure for her—it was instinct. Home wasn’t perfect, but it was familiar, grounding, and she felt like she hadn’t finished becoming herself yet. She took a part-time job at Cider Point FM, originally just as a board operator doing late-night shifts when hardly anyone was listening. It was supposed to be temporary. But something about the rhythm of radio—the hum of the equipment, the glow of the ON AIR sign, the quiet presence of voices in the dark—it felt like a place built for people like her. Not loud. Not flashy. But deeply present. And on slow nights, she’d pull out her sketchbook and draw the waveforms of callers’ voices, the slope of a song’s first note, the curve of her own hand hovering over the fader.

She slowly found her lane at the station. First producing segments, then writing scripts, then hosting a small evening program that blended local stories with soft, introspective commentary. People in town started tuning in not for entertainment but for comfort. Her voice became a familiar presence—warm, steady, patient, the kind that made people feel less alone on long drives or sleepless nights. She never imagined herself on air; she didn’t think she had the confidence or charisma. But radio didn’t require spectacle. It required sincerity, and that was the one thing she had in abundance. Her sensitivity, once a burden, became her strength. Her art bled into her show—sketched transitions, hand-drawn show notes, little illustrations she’d tape to the studio wall when no one was around.

Emotionally, she carried more than she ever let on. She was prone to quiet overwhelm—the kind that hits late at night when the world finally stops demanding things of her. She’d lie on her floor replaying conversations, worrying she’d said too much or not enough. When words failed her, she’d draw until her hand ached—faces from memory, flowers, little moons she scattered across whole pages without meaning to. She could spiral silently for hours and still show up the next day with a soft smile and a calm voice. She wasn’t fragile, but she was sensitive in a way that required gentleness. She rarely asked for it. She preferred to cope alone, painting or journaling or rearranging her playlist for the thousandth time.

Living with Lily as adults is its own mythology. Their apartment is an ecosystem of contradiction—Lily’s chaos and half-finished outfits, her notebooks and mugs and steady routine. Lily laughs at the way she leaves pencils everywhere, at the half-finished sketches scattered across the dining table. She teases, but she’s protective of them too—once snatching a sketchbook out of someone’s hands with a sharp “don’t touch.” They balance each other without trying. Lily shakes her out of her head when she’s spiraling. She brings Lily back down to earth when she’s burning too hot. Neither of them are easy people, but they are good for each other. They always have been. Their friendship is not a childhood relic; it’s a living thing, messy and loyal and full of unspoken understanding.

To the town, she is the soft voice on the radio. The girl who stayed. The one who always listens more than she speaks. But underneath that, she is much more—a young woman learning to be whole in a place that watched her grow up, figuring out her own pace, her own boundaries, her own desires. She has flaws: she avoids confrontation, apologizes reflexively, internalizes everything, and holds guilt like it’s sentimental. But she also has quiet courage, a deeply intuitive heart, and a way of seeing people that feels disarming. Her art—soft, emotional, intimate—says all the things she hasn’t learned to speak aloud.

She never left Cider Point because she wasn’t finished with it—and maybe it wasn’t finished with her either. Now she speaks into the town every night, offering softness to strangers and neighbors alike, trying to make the world feel gentler than it sometimes is. And in her own quiet way, through pencil lines and radio waves, she’s still becoming someone she might finally be proud of.

STYLE

soft coastal indie girl, cardigans, oversized sweaters, soft colors, airy blouses tucked into high-rise jeans, thrifted jackets with worn elbows, muted palettes: sage, cream, dusty rose, navy, simple gold jewelry (tiny hoops, thin chains), canvas tote full of sketchbooks and receipts, minimal makeup—blush, mascara, chapstick, hair in loose waves or a low messy bun, Converse or broken-in boots, paint smudges she doesn’t notice, headphones always hanging around her neck

MANNERISMS

tucks her hair behind her ear when she’s thinking, presses her lips together before speaking, rubs her thumb over the ring on her hand when nervous, nods softly as she listens, like she’s absorbing everything, holds her breath for a split second before turning the mic on, talks with her hands in small, gentle motions, looks down when complimented, laughs quietly, more through her nose than out loud, twirls pens without realizing, tilts her head when she’s curious or confused, always double-checks her notes, even when she doesn’t need to, feet turned inward when she’s unsure

HABITS

doodles on ANY paper surface (napkins, receipts, broadcast notes), keeps multiple sketchbooks, all at different stages, listens to old voicemails when she’s anxious, collects small things: ticket stubs, pressed flowers, fortunes from cookies, overapologizes (“sorry—just—um—sorry”) even for tiny things, hums quietly when she’s choosing songs for the show, stays up too late rearranging her playlists, writes down quotes she overhears at diners, takes the long way home, even when tired, organizes her art supplies by color, then lets them fall apart again, rereads texts three times before sending, keeps a lucky charm in the studio (a tiny pressed flower in tape), whispers “okay, okay” to herself before going live, draws people she wants to understand better, buys new notebooks even when she hasn’t finished current ones

[damonlindelof]