Is that KAYA COLEMAN? No, that’s just KJOR “KJ” HIMLEN. They were born on 11/04/2007 and are in their FRESHMAN year at Northknot University. They live in Northknot because they are a SUN/MOON FAIRY HYBRID. Some say they're RADIANT and HOPEFUL, but I’ve heard others say they're INSECURE and FRAGILE. When you think of HER, don’t you think of WARM LIGHT THROUGH STAINED GLASS, LAUGHTER HIDING OLD CRACKS & EYES THAT GLOW EVEN WHEN UNSURE?
Name: Kjor Rhiana Ymani Himlen Pronunciation: KYOR ree-AH-nuh ee-MAH-nee HIM-len Nickname(s): KJ, Sun/Moonbeam (depending on the vibe she's giving in that moment), Honestly, she will probably answer to whatever nickname you give her, even if it makes her uncomfortable. That alone says a lot Birthday: April 11th, 2007 Age: 19 Zodiac Sign: Aries Sun, Capricorn Moon, Capricorn Rising Gender: Cis-Female Pronouns: She/Her Species: Sun/Moon Fairy Hybrid Orientation: Pansexual, Demiromantic Occupation: Full-Time Student Faceclaim: Kaya Coleman
HEADCANONS
Kjor always apologizes even when someone bumps into her
She instinctively sits closest to exits—just in case someone needs help
She keeps her phone on ring at all times because she’s afraid of missing a call from someone in need
Kjor can’t stand being yelled at; raised voices make her shut down fast
She smiles when she’s nervous, even when it doesn’t make sense to
She gives thoughtful, deeply personal gifts… even to people who barely know her
She struggles to ask for help but will accept it if it’s offered gently
Kjor academically excels when no one is watching—crumbles under pressure to “perform”
She visibly flinches when people praise her too loudly or too publicly
She believes rest has to be earned, not merited
Kjor keeps just about everything in her tote bag (change, tissue, snacks, portable chargers, hair ties, etc) “just in case someone needs them”
She has a habit of taking emotional responsibility for rooms she walks into
She feels irrational guilt when people are upset, even if she wasn’t involved
She finds comfort in routines but panics when she feels trapped by them
Kjor secretly journals unsent letters—to her family, to her ex, to herself
She feels safest at dawn, when the world feels gentle and unfinished
She tends to mistake intensity for intimacy (and is slowly unlearning that)
She has no idea how powerful she actually is
Kjor laughs brightest when she feels genuinely seen
APPEARANCE
Kjor looks like warmth that learned how to be human. Her features are soft but striking, framed by thick, dark hair that falls in loose waves and catches light like it was made to be touched by the sun. Her eyes are large and expressive, a deep, luminous brown with a quiet glow that shifts depending on her mood—bright when she laughs, shadowed when she retreats inward. There is a gentleness to her face, rounded at the cheeks and balanced by a clean, delicate jawline that gives her an almost timeless quality. She carries herself with an unassuming grace, shoulders slightly drawn in as if trying not to take up too much space, yet there is an undeniable presence to her—something celestial, something tender and steady. Even at rest, she looks like someone mid-thought, as though she is always listening for something just beyond the room
PERSONALITY
Kjor moves through the world like someone who learned early that love is something you earn by being useful. She is gentle, radiant, and instinctively attuned to other people’s emotions, often noticing shifts in tone and mood before words are spoken. Kindness comes easily to her, but it is not weightless—it costs her. She gives without measuring, comforts without asking for permission, and stays longer than she should out of a quiet fear that leaving makes her disposable. Underneath her sweetness lives a sharp intelligence and an unspoken resilience; she absorbs more than people realize and understands more than she lets on. Kjor struggles with boundaries and self-trust, torn between believing she is genuinely good and fearing that her goodness is simply penance. She avoids conflict not because she is weak, but because she is tired of being the only one trying to keep things from falling apart. At her core, she is hopeful—achingly so—still choosing softness in a world that taught her how dangerous it can be
AESTHETIC
warmed river stones drying in the sun – light filtering through lace curtains at dawn – hands hovering before touching – laughter that comes a second too late – pressed flowers forgotten in book pages – candle smoke curling like unanswered prayers – the hush right after someone says “it wasn’t your fault” – sleeves pulled over trembling hands – a glow that refuses to go out even when dimmed – gentleness mistaken for weakness – love given before it is asked for – standing between people so no one has to hurt alone
CONNECTIONS
The Surviving Twin (Older Sibling) Kjor and her older sibling are bound by a loss neither of them knows how to name out loud. In childhood, grief turned into anger that sometimes landed on Kjor, not because she was at fault, but because she was there. Now grown, their relationship is quieter, strained but enduring—marked by unspoken apologies, complicated loyalty, and a shared understanding that the river never really let either of them go
The Three Musketeers 2.0 (Best Friends, 2/2) Kjor never meant to fall into another trio. It just… happened. Three people with wildly different strengths, slowly orbiting each other until it felt familiar enough to hurt and safe enough to stay. One protects (the spine), one grounds (the roots), and Kjor connects (the heart)—learning, this time, that love doesn’t require sacrifice, silence, or self-erasure. The ache of resemblance to her upbringing lingers, but so does the healing: this trio is not a replacement, but a rewrite
The Super Super Slowburn A connection that feels safe and real, but stalls because Kjor doesn’t know how to receive love without giving everything back. Tender. Unfinished. Lingering
The Love That Hovered & Love That Withheld (Parents, 2/2) Kjor’s relationship with her parents is shaped by contrast. Her father loves loudly and anxiously, his protectiveness rooted in fear and loss, often mistaking control for care. Her mother loves quietly and from a distance, offering stability but little emotional presence, leaving Kjor to wonder if her feelings were simply too much to hold
The One Who Knew Her Before Someone (teacher, neighbor, family member, family friend, etc) or a childhood friend who remembers the trio, the laughter, and the pre-trauma times. They carry shared grief, even if it’s never spoken
BIOGRAPHY
tw: parental neglect (emotional), drowning, child death, survivor’s guilt, abusive relationship
Kjor is all warm light through stained glass—beautiful not because it’s flawless, but because it’s cracked and still shining. She was born and raised in Northknot, tethered to the town by magic, memory, and a heart that never learned how to leave without guilt. A sun/moon fairy hybrid, she carries duality in her bones: radiance and shadow, hope and grief, softness sharpened by survival. She grew up in a close-knit home that was loving but uneven. Her father hovered, protective to the point of panic. Her mother loved quietly, distantly, like emotion was a language she’d once known and forgotten. Kjor learned early how to smooth things over, how to mediate tension before it could erupt. She was praised for kindness, rewarded for compliance, and gently taught—without anyone meaning to—that honesty was less important than harmony.
“Do small things with great love.”
Kjor had twin siblings less than a year older than her, close enough in age that the three of them were inseparable. People called them the Three Musketeers, Irish triplets, a matched set. They were laughter and scraped knees and inside jokes, a perfect little constellation. Until they weren’t. When Kjor was nine, everything broke. They were at the water—the river—adults nearby but distracted, kids playing too close to danger. One twin swam out too far and panicked when the current pulled them under. Kjor didn’t think. She never does. She jumped in after them, small and desperate and certain that love could outswim physics. It couldn’t. She was dragged under in the chaos, fighting water and terror and the unbearable truth that she couldn’t hold them both up.
“The deepest wounds are the ones we inflict on ourselves.”
Their father reached her first. While he checked her over, Kjor screamed—sobbing, choking—that the other twin was still under. By the time anyone listened, it was too late. One twin lived. One didn’t. Afterward, the family did what families sometimes do when grief is too sharp: they erased. No name spoken. No photos out. No stories told. Silence where a person used to be. Kjor learned then that grief was something you swallowed so other people could breathe. The surviving twin lashed out—anger turned inward and outward, sometimes landing on Kjor. Sometimes blaming her. Sometimes hating themselves so much it spilled. Soon after, their parents had another child, a quiet attempt at filling a hole that couldn’t be filled. The surviving twin resented the new child. Kjor took responsibility for them. For everyone.
“I stayed because I thought I was strong enough to make it better.”
By high school, Kjor was a masterclass in people-pleasing. Gentle. Sweet. Always giving too much too fast, terrified of being too much or not enough. That fear made her easy prey. In her sophomore year, she was love-bombed into an abusive relationship—convinced it was fate, or punishment, or a second chance to atone for a failure she could never forgive herself for. Not being able to save her older sibling. She stayed in the abusive relationship. She endured. She believed she could fix them, save them; believed them when they said she was the reason they wanted to be a better person. She never left. Survived the worst they threw at her. They left her at the end. After graduation, her partner discarded her cleanly, saying they needed to focus on their future. They left Northknot. Kjor stayed.
“And now that you don’t have to be perfect, you can be good.”
Now a freshman at Northknot University, Kjor is well-liked, widely underestimated, and quietly brilliant. Professors didn’t expect straight A’s from someone so soft-spoken, so sweet. Neither did she, really. She remains undecided in her major because deciding requires knowing yourself—and Kjor is still unsure where her goodness ends and her guilt begins. She has friends. She smiles easily. She glows even when uncertain. But beneath the warmth is a question she’s never stopped asking: Is she kind because she is a good person—or because she’s afraid of who she’d be if she stopped? Kjor is learning, slowly, painfully, how to exist without earning her place. How to set boundaries. How to believe that failing once—especially as a child—doesn’t make her responsible for everyone else’s survival. She is not broken. She is not weak. She is light learning how to shine without burning herself alive.
