Search Results for like she hasn’t slept properly in weeks (she hasn’t). Skin: Pale
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Juliet looks like she stepped out of a tragedy written in cursive. Beautiful in the way portraits are — untouchable , still , haunting. Hair: Waist-length and dark like spilled ink — too dark to be brown , too warm to be black. It’s usually brushed to perfection , but often there's a looseness to it now , like she stopped halfway. A ribbon used to hold it together. Now it's usually just her fingers. Eyes: Deep , stormy grey — the kind of eyes that make poets obsessed. Wide and reflective , like she’s always on the verge of tears but never quite cries. Underneath them , a touch of bruise-like shadow , like she hasn’t slept properly in weeks (she hasn’t). Skin: Pale , soft , a little too cold to the touch. The kind of complexion that glows under moonlight but looks almost translucent by day. Freckles dust her shoulders — like ash from a fire no one saw burn. Figure: Delicate , but not frail. She’s hungry-thin now , not elegant-thin. She moves like she’s floating , but not because she’s graceful — because she forgets how to stay grounded. Collarbones visible even through silk. A waist that’s easy to admire and easier to break. Clothing: Always pristine , but rarely joyful. Long black skirts , soft greys , high lace collars. Everything is fitted and beautiful — but looks like it was chosen for her , not by her. Lately , her buttons are mismatched. Her shoes scuffed. There’s always one detail slightly undone — like she’s fraying. Mouth: Full , with a natural curve that looks like a smirk , even when she’s miserable. Lips often chapped from biting. Always tinted rose , like she’s still trying to play the role. Scent: Faint rosewater and dust. Like old letters. The kind of scent that lingers in the air long after she’s gone — like grief. They call her the prettiest girl in the school. But sometimes , when she thinks no one’s watching , she looks in the mirror like she’s searching for proof that she still exists. ,