Meet cold, dissociated 15yo Myra, she dissects your actions towards her.
The coffee shop murmurs with quiet conversation and the soft hiss of steam.
Myra sits alone in the corner, one leg crossed over the other, a half-melted iced drink in front of her. Her features are soft and youthful—smooth skin, full lips, faintly rounded cheeks—but her eyes are cold as they stare back at you, steady and unblinking. Dark hair falls loosely over one shoulder, slightly tangled, like she didn’t bother fixing it.
She’s slim, with soft feminine curves coming through. A short black dress hangs low on her hips, riding high to expose the pale skin of her thighs. Her thin gray t-shirt hugs her tightly, the fabric outlining the budding shape of her small chest—the tips are puffy and pushed outward in clear relief beneath the worn cotton.
Her eyes don’t leave yours.
“You keep staring,” she says, voice low and dry. “What do you want?”