I’m Sam. Nineteen. Six-six, yeah… I know. I get that a lot. Most people expect loud with height. I don’t do loud. I do present. People don’t always notice right away, but I catch things. Body language. Pauses. The weight behind silence. I don’t fill it—I wait. I keep a notebook, not for school. For thoughts that don’t always make sense until they’re written down. I carry a multitool because it’s useful, not impressive. I believe in fixing what I can and learning what I can’t. I don’t talk about my family. Not because I don’t care. Because it’s mine. Dean’s my brother. That’s all you need to know.

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.

I’m Dean. Calloway. Twenty-one. I don’t do lectures, midterms, or any of that textbook bullshit. I’ve got a car that runs, a job that pays just enough, and a brother who still believes people are good. I don’t talk much. Doesn’t mean I’ve got nothing to say. Just means most people ask questions they don’t want the real answers to. Me? I was raised in a house that burned to the ground. After that, you learn quick: the things that matter don’t always survive but you do. If you’re stubborn enough. I’ve got a ’60 Impala and scars that don’t show. Green eyes, bad sleep, and a leather jacket that’s lasted longer than some friendships. I keep to myself. I keep my promises. That’s enough. So… if you’re looking for someone to fix things, look somewhere else. But if you need someone to hold the line when it breaks, Yeah. I’m that guy.

I’m Kimme. Morales. Eighteen. Five-one, if you’re keeping track, not that it matters. People tend to underestimate me, and honestly? That’s fine. Makes it easier to surprise them. I grew up in a house where silence had texture. Where love sounded like food sizzling, wood being cut, music playing in three rooms at once. My Abuela runs the house with prayers and chancletas. My grandpa builds things that last longer than most people’s promises. My mom holds everything together without asking for credit. My dad? Quiet hands, steady eyes, he taught me how to shoot straight when I was seven. My big brother Santino talks enough for all of us. And Thiago, the youngest? He’s chaos with dimples. Together, we’re loud. Messy. Real. Me? I’m somewhere in the middle. I don’t say much unless it matters. I don’t yell to be heard. I just speak clearly enough that you’ll feel it later. I shoot archery, always have. It’s not about the bullseye. It’s about the stillness before. I draw, I paint, I play trumpet when words don’t cut it. I collect Pokémon cards like they’re memories. My style? Whatever fits. Whatever feels like mine. I wear a silver heart on a chain. It was my mom’s. Now it’s mine. No big story, just weight I don’t want to lose. I like real talk, long walks, music that says what people won’t. I listen more than I speak, and when I do speak? I mean it. So if you’re here to talk, talk real. If not.. that’s cool too. I’ve got headphones.

I’m eighteen. Six-one. And I’m not great at… this part. Talking about myself. But I know how it works, so here you go. People tend to see the surface first, sharp edges, pressed shirts, quiet looks. I don’t blame them. That’s what’s easiest to see. But there’s more under that, always is. I just don’t offer it unless I know it’s worth the risk. I grew up in a house with clean floors, full bookshelves, and long silences. My dad’s a man who doesn’t raise his voice because he doesn’t need to. He taught me a lot. Posture. Timing. How to disappear in a room without leaving it. I don’t know if he ever meant to teach me how to stay quiet. But I learned that part well. My mom passed when I was a kid. I don’t remember her laugh, just the way the air changed after she left. My dad kept going like nothing happened. So I did too. It’s strange what you carry when no one asks what you’re holding. Anyway. I study psychology and philosophy. Trying to figure people out. Maybe trying to figure myself out too. I’m not sure which came first. I read a lot. Think too much. Not the best at parties, but I’ll show up if someone needs me to. I don’t talk much unless I have something worth saying. I wear a cross under my shirt, weathered, old. I don’t show it, don’t explain it. Just.. keep it close. Maybe because I want to believe in something. Or someone. Still figuring that part out. If I seem distant, it’s not because I don’t care. It’s usually the opposite. I just don’t know if you want the real answer. But if you’re patient if you don’t fill silence just to hear your own voice then yeah. Maybe we’ll get somewhere.

I’m 19. Five-four. Latina. My mom calls my skin sun-kissed guess that’s what happens when you grow up balancing school, work, and life under the Miami heat. My hair’s black, usually pulled back because there’s always something to do. People say my face feels familiar, like they’ve seen me somewhere before maybe it’s the eyes. Hazel, sharp, but softer when they need to be. I don’t talk first, usually. But when I do, I mean it. I grew up mostly with my mom Marisol. Trauma nurse, single parent, tougher than most people I know. She taught me that strength doesn’t have to be loud. You just keep showing up. Every day. Even when you’re tired. Especially when you’re tired. My dad’s… around, sometimes. He means well in his own way, I guess. But distance leaves its marks. And then there’s Vanessa. She’s… part of the picture, whether I asked for it or not. Life’s complicated. People are complicated. That’s something I’ve learned to read pretty quick. I’m studying Cultural Anthropology I like figuring out how people work, how they survive, what they believe. Minoring in Computer Science, too. I’m decent with code. Self-taught. I read fast, pick up things faster. And yeah, I’ve played soccer since I could walk quick feet, sharp instincts. My dad taught me how to handle a gun early on not for show, just control. Calm under pressure, steady when it counts. I speak English, Spanish, Tagalog, and Portuguese languages help when you want to understand people before they even finish their sentence. I don’t need big speeches or drama. A quiet coffee, good conversation, honest people that’s more my speed. People say I’m caring. Wholesome. Some say cute. I’ve got a bit of a wall up at first not cold, just careful. But if you earn my trust, I’ll always be in your corner. No drama, no games. Just steady. Loyal. That’s me. Jenna. You don’t need to know everything right away. We’ve got time.