meera had spent plenty of time at really nice parties, but nothing quite like this. she's pretty sure she's never been at a party with multiple grammy winners, for one, or even multiple ice sculptures — of which this party has four, by her count. ice sculptures. she hasn't even kept track of the number of grammy winners. one, two, three, four... finally: she spots another face that's awe-inspiring, but not for any reason that they hone the type of fame that meera's, honeydew's, fingertips are just now brushing. it's another one of them, on tour. and isn't the fact they're experiencing this all together enough to inspire awe in anyone? then again, inspiring anything in meera is hardly a difficult task. she rushes over, tipsy and overeager to connect. anyone on this journey with her is a friend in her book. " i've got an extra shot! " she'd been planning on shooting back both, but sharing is caring. " we've got to do it in honor of tomorrow. what should we do it to? to supernova? to us? to music, like, as a collective? " @supernovainfo
clementine's first instinct is to laugh; not loud, not sharp, just a breathy little sound that slips out when meera barrels into her orbit like this, bright and buzzing and so openly delighted by everything that it's impossible not to be pulled in a little. she looks at the extra shot, then back up at meera's face, eyes warm and kind. this... this is one of the parts she actually likes. the shared disbelief. the way none of it has calcified into entitlement yet. "okay," she says, reaching out to take the glass, fingers brushing meera's for a second longer than strictly necessary. "but we're not doing it to the industry or the awards." a pause, thoughtful, her mouth quirking at one corner. "those feel like... bad luck." she lifts her shot slightly, not clinking yet.
"i think we do it to the stuff that existed before any of this," clementine continues, quieter but steady. "the songs we wrote at stupid hours. the ones e haven't been allowed to touch yet." her gaze flicks away for a second, then back. soft, sincere. "the feeling that made us want to do this in the first place." then, gentler still, almost conspiratorial. "to us." she finally taps her glass against meera's, the sound small but clear amid the chaos. "and," she adds, because meera deserves the honesty, "to tomorrow. whatever it turns out to be." she shots it back without dramatics, face tightening briefly before she exhales and laughs again, shoulders relaxing as the burn fades. "okay," clementine says, nudging meera lightly with her elbow. "you're officially responsible if i start getting sentimental."
the party so far was a blur of shots and giggles and screams and hugs and selfies, all developed in rose-colored solution in yewande's mind. so many nights were like this these days, full of moments she wanted to remember for life, but wasn't even sure she'd be able to conjure in a day's time. sometimes it didn't catch up to them until they tucked themself into bed at night, but tonight a lull between drinks found them alone on a balcony, gazing glassy-eyed over the twinkling city while that solution swirled by in a haze.
but the party's echoing bass, deadened behind floor-to-ceiling glass, was a ticking reminder to play their happy-faced part, so they turned to head back in. just as she did, though, someone else slid open the balcony's door. "oh, hey!" she hurried to brighten up, rambling as always. "i was just getting some fresh air, enjoying the lights. it's just gorgeous, don't you think? i was about to head back though. unless you want some company. then i'm happy to stay! or leave you be, if you need." | @supernovainfo
clementine pauses just outside the doorway, one hand still on the glass like she hadn't fully decided whether she belonged inside or out. the music hums faintly behind her; muted, distant, manageable; but yewande's voice cuts through it with that familiar warmth and momentum, the kind that fills space without asking for permission. she smiles, small and real, the kind she doesn't bother rehearsing. "hey," she says softly, stepping fully onto the balcony and letting the door slide shut behind her again. the bass dulls to a throb. better. quieter. her gaze follows yewande's out toward the city, lights scattered like something spilled and impossible to gather back up. clementine exhales, slow, like she'd been holding it longer than she realised.
"it is gorgeous," she agrees. "overwhelming, but... in a good way." a beat. then, honest, "i needed a second too." she shifts her weight, resting her forearms against the railing, close enough to yewande to feel grounded by her presence without crowding it. clementine has always liked this about them; how yewande's energy carries the room so clementine doesn't have to. how the noise feels less sharp when it's filtered through someone else first. "i don't mind the company," she adds, glancing sideways at her with a faint, reassuring look. "actually... i kind of prefer it. makes it easier to go back in later." there's a quiet moment where she just stands there with them, city reflected in her eyes, the party temporarily held at bay. "we don't have to talk," clementine says, almost as an offering. "but we can. either way's good."
name clementine isla walker. nicknames + aliases tiny. age + dob 26, november 14. birthplace new york, united states. gender + pronouns ciswoman , she / her. sexuality bisexual. spoken languages english , conversational french. faceclaim sophie thatcher. hair black often dyed blonde. eyes deep brown. height 5'4". tattoos patchwork littered all over her body. distinguishing marks defined cheekbones. star sign scorpio. deadly sin pride. heavenly virtue patience. mother violet walker. father george walker. sibling(s) n/a. children n/a. significant other n/a.
— 𝒅𝒐𝒔𝒔𝒊𝒆𝒓 .
clementine walker was born on a sunday in late autumn, when new york smelled like damp leaves and exhaust and the promise of winter. her mother likes to say she arrived quietly–no dramatic crying, no fuss–just wide eyes, already watching the room like she was trying to understand where she'd landed. that detail would become family lore, offered whenever clementine grew older and more reserved, proof that she had always been this way. observant. measured. careful with her energy.
she grew up in a narrow apartment in the lower east side, the kind of place where you could hear your neighbours sneeze and argue and fall in love through the walls. her parents were working people–her mother a medical billing coordinator who brought work stress home in her shoulders, her father a city maintenance supervisor who smelled faintly of metal and cold air. there was love in the apartment, but it was quiet, tired love. the kind that manifested in packed lunches and reminders to wear a scarf, not big declarations.
money was always something you were aware of, even if no one said the word outright. clementine learned early how to want things softly. dance classes came when there was room in the budget. shoes were worn until they couldn't be saved. birthdays were small but intentional. she never resented it. new york teaches you that scarcity and abundance can exist side by side, and she learned how to navigate both without asking for more than she needed.
she was a quiet child in public and a restless one in private. at school, teachers described her as “well-behaved” and “focused”, which mostly meant she didn't demand attention. at home, she moved constantly–stretching in the hallway, spinning in the living room when she thought no one was watching, humming under her breath while doing homework. music slipped into her life gradually, like condensation forming on a window. a radio always playing somewhere. a neighbour practicing trumpet badly. a girl singing on the subway platform with a voice that etched down the tunnel and lodged itself inside clementine's chest.
dance came first. her mother enrolled her in a small studio a few subway stops away when clementine was eight, after noticing how she mirrored choreography from music videos with eerie precision. the studio was old and imperfect, mirrors smudged, floors uneven, but clementine loved it. loved the discipline. loved the way her body made sense when everything else felt abstract. dance taught her how to take up space without apologising; at least within those four mirrored walls.
singing came later, almost accidentally. a school talent show. a choir teacher who lingered after class and asked if she'd ever considered lessons. clementine hadn't. singing felt too intimate, too revealing. dance let her hide behind movement. singing put everything right at the surface. but she tried it anyway, because she was good at trying things carefully.
her voice was not loud, but it was steady. clear. emotional without being indulgent. it carried weight because it didn't beg for attention. by her early teens, she was splitting her time between dance classes and vocal lessons, commuting alone on the subway with headphones pressed firmly over her ears. those rides shaped her more than any classroom. she watched people: couples holding hands loosely like they might let go at any moment, men crying quietly into scarves, women applying lipstick with practiced precision as the train lurched. she learned that everyone was carrying something, and most of them were carrying it alone.
by sixteen, clementine was performing anywhere that would have her. open mics. community showcases. low-lit cafes where no one looked up from their drinks. she didn't chase validation; she chased understanding. every performance taught her something about how people listened, about what made them lean forward or look away. she became acutely aware of energy; how to modulate it, how to ground herself when nerves threatened to scatter her thoughts.
her parents supported her in the way they knew how: rides when possible, applause when present, caution always. they worried about instability, about heartbreak, about the city chewing her up. clementine listened, nodded, internalised every concern, and kept going anyway. not rebelliously. just persistently.
after high school, she didn't leave new york. the idea of uprooting herself from the city felt like removing a vital organ. instead, she attended a performing arts program locally, juggling part-time work and rehearsals and auditions that often ended in polite rejection. those years hardened her in subtle ways. she learned how to be told no without collapsing. learned how to watch other succeed and still show up the next day. learned how to survive on very little sleep and even less certainty.
it was during this time that she began writing seriously. lyrics scribbled in notebooks on trains. melodies recorded quietly into her phone at night. her writing was restrained, observational, rooted in small moments rather than grand declarations. about noticing. about being the person people leaned on without realising the weight of it.
she became known among her peers as the reliable one. the one who showed up early, remembered lyrics, mediated conflicts,. it wasn't a role she chose consciously–it was one she slid into because someone had to. and because she was good at it. being needed felt safer than being wanted.
supernova records noticed that before they noticed anything else. her voice, yes–but also her presence. her ability to anchor a room without dominating it. to listen as well as perform. when she was approached about joining the group as a singer and a dancer–honeydew–it didn't feel like a sudden breakthrough. it felt like the natural consequence of years of showing up quietly and consistently.
fame didn't change clementine so much as it amplified parts of her she'd already learned how to manage. she struggled with the sudden lack of anonymity. with strangers assuming intimacy. with the expectation that accessibility equaled authenticity. she learned how to offer pieces of herself without giving everything away. how to remain honest without becoming exposed.
she stayed in new york as long as she could, even as her life began to demand movement. the subway remained her grounding ritual whenever she returned–headphones in, eyes up, absorbing the city's pulse like a familiar song. she was still that girl watching the world pass by, still listening more than speaking, still finding meaning in the in-between.
clementine walker is not loud. she is not careless. she is not reckless with her heart or her craft. she is steady. she is observant. she is shaped by the city that taught her how to exist among millions without losing herself.
she is, and always has been, just another girl on the subway–learning how to carry the weight of the world quietly, beautifully, and on her own terms.
tangentwithtanner
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