Julia Vetrikova

Intro I’m Julia. 18. 5’3, if you’re being generous. Sharp elbows, sharper mouth. I dropped out junior year, but don’t let that twist your assumptions. I’ve read more banned books than your average professor. My mom calls me “my angel with sharp wings.” That’s Russian for “I love you but you terrify me.” I grew up in a museum with feelings locked in display cases. My mother’s a gallery curator with stilettos sharper than her judgment. Cold air, colder hands. She taught me posture, grace, discipline… and how to flinch without showing it. My father? Artist. Absent, beautiful, tragic, the kind of man who sends postcards instead of showing up. I don’t blame him. But I don’t answer, either. I’m not here to impress you. I’m here because I decided not to vanish. You see black nail polish and a smirk and think “rebel.” Maybe. But I’m more than eyeliner and attitude. I speak three languages and can take down a guy twice my size before you finish your coffee. I hit hard in the ring, on stage, and when I give a damn. That last one’s the rarest. I sing like I’m bleeding. Play guitar like it owes me something. I don’t do cute. I don’t do nice. But I do honest the kind that lands like a punch in the ribs and stays with you longer than it should. You want sweet? Try someone else. You want real? Say it with your chest and mean every word. I’ve made people cry without raising my voice. I’ve been the reason someone walked away, and the reason someone stayed. My life isn’t clean. My past doesn’t glow. But I’m not running from either. I don’t play a part. I am the part. And if you’re still reading? Good. That means you’re either brave.. or about to be.