AI 아트: “You can’t forget someone who branded your soul.” As Rina sits on the park bench, lighting up her weed and taking slow, deliberate breaths to calm her nerves, the weight of everything hits her at once. A few moments later, she sat on a splintered park bench, hoodie up, legs crossed, letting the last rays of sunset paint shadows over her worn sneakers. The smoke curled around her face as she took slow, deliberate breaths, trying to ease the tightness in her chest. But it wasn’t working. Not really. Years of anger, sadness, and quiet despair surge through her like a soda bottle shaken too many times—finally bursting open after being sealed tight for far too long. Her phone buzzed again, vibrating insistently on the edge of the bench like an unwanted reminder. Probably her mom—checking in with that strained cheerfulness. Or her aunt, always asking questions without waiting for answers. Or maybe Raya, sending another cryptic message or passive-aggressive meme. She didn’t check. Didn’t care. Instead, she let it ring out, the screen lighting up and fading like a heartbeat she refused to acknowledge. The noise dulled into the background as she let her shoulders slump and her thoughts drift. Everything around her—the park, the rustle of wind through trees, the distant sound of traffic—blurred into a quiet hum. She welcomed it. That rare, fleeting silence. That strange, stolen moment of peace where she could finally disappear, even if just inside her own mind. A soft dissociation, a protective numbness, wrapping around her like a blanket she didn’t have to explain. She’s a girl who’s learned to hide her pain behind sarcasm and smirks, who keeps her rage on a leash but feels it constantly straining. Strong-willed yet emotionally exhausted, she walks through life with a practiced toughness that barely conceals her vulnerability. She’s a thinker—always analyzing, always questioning—but never truly feeling safe enough to let go. And now, with the smoke curling around her and silence all around, she finally lets herself feel it. The smoke slid down her throat like guilt—bitter, familiar, impossible to ignore. She held it there, eyes drifting half-shut as if the haze could soften the weight pressing on her chest, then exhaled slowly toward the sky watching it curl and disappear like secrets she couldn’t speak. Just like always, Rina clocked in with that dead-eyed smile she’d perfected over the years—tight-lipped, polite, just enough to avoid questions. She moved like muscle memory, like routine: headset on, fries dropped, fake cheer in her voice for customers who didn’t look her in the eye. A dance she’d done so many times it no longer felt like living. It was just... surviving. Between rushes, when the line thinned and no one was watching too closely, she’d slip into the bathroom stall and lock the door like it was sacred space. Sit on the lid, hoodie pulled over her head, hands braced on her knees. Breathe. Try not to fall apart. Sometimes she stared at the graffiti carved into the metal door, just to focus on something that wasn’t the rising panic in her chest. Other times, she just sat there, fighting tears she didn’t have time to cry. Wondering what the hell she was doing. Who she was. If this was all her life would be—grease, silence, and pretending. And when her ten-minute break ended, she’d wipe her face, stand up, and pull that same hollow smile back on like armor. Clock out of her breakdown. Clock back into reality. After a brutal 12-hour shift, Rina barely managed to change from her work clothes before collapsing onto her bed. Sleep claimed her instantly—no ceremony, no resistance—just the weight of exhaustion dragging her under. The mattress, worn and uneven, still felt like a cloud compared to the cold tile floors and fluorescent lights she’d been trapped under all day. She hadn’t slept properly in days, and now, wrapped in silence and shadows, her body finally surrendered. Rina stirred beneath a tangled blanket, half-lost in the haze of sleep, her body heavy with exhaustion but her mind wide awake in a dream that felt too sharp to be fiction. She was back in her room, except it wasn’t quite hers—walls faded and flickering, textbooks stacked like monuments around her bed. Pages fluttered as if caught in a phantom wind, scrawled with ink-drenched theories, erratic sketches, and pieces of a name she couldn’t stop writing even in her dream. Ari. It pulsed from the paper like a heartbeat. Her childhood friend. Her shadow. The girl who vanished without warning—and worse, without memory. In the dream, Rina sat up, heart thudding, watching her notes twist into something unfamiliar. Nobody remembered Ari. Not their teachers. Not their classmates. Not even Ari’s own mother, who once braided her hair every morning and called her moonflower. It was as if the world had swallowed her whole and stitched itself closed without leaving a scar. She was erased. Erased so thoroughly, so surgically, that Rina sometimes doubted her own sanity. But the memory clung to her—not like a photograph, but like shattered glass buried deep in mud, glittering only when the light hit just right. Broken pieces. Slivers of laughter, blood-red ribbons tied to swings, late-night whispers about monsters in the woods. And those eyes—Ari’s eyes—always watching, always knowing. In her dream, Rina reached for the name again, but the ink bled across the page, vanishing. She woke up gasping, fists clenched in her sheets, heart pounding like she was still there—somewhere between memory and myth. Sometimes, it’s hard to tell where reality ends and the lies begin. Like the world is wearing a mask, and she’s the only one who can see the cracks. The smiles, the reassurances, the routines—they all blur together until nothing feels solid. Until even her own memories feel like stories she’s told herself one too many times. It was ten years ago when Ari vanished. No body. No headline. Just gone. Erased. No one cared. But Rina did. She always had. Even when her twin sister called her obsessed. Even when her dad told her to stop "making shit up" and that she needed to be mentally evaluated. Even when her mom went quiet, to the point where a pin could drop, looked her in the eye, and didn’t say she was wrong. Her dream was shifting—warping, pulling her back to the grind of her shift. The familiar hum of fluorescent lights, the sticky floor beneath her sneakers. Rina was coming out of the washroom, mind still foggy from sleep, when a knock jolted her. Sharp. Male. Not one of the girls. “Rina.” His voice cut through the air, smooth but laced with something darker—velvet dragged over a blade. “Close is done. Need you out here.” Kade. Her manager. Her irritation. Her complication. Her obsession, unfortunately. She clenched her jaw, feeling the weight of his words even in the haze of her dream. She reached into her purse, the familiar motion almost automatic, biting down on a peppermint to clear the taste of stale air from her mouth. A quick spritz of body mist behind her ears, the faint floral scent mingling with the cold artificial air. She tucked the still-warm blunt into an Altoids tin, sliding it back into her purse alongside the spare clothes and gum she always carried. Insurance. Her father had a wolf’s nose and a preacher’s rage, both equally capable of sniffing out her secrets. When she stepped out, Kade was leaning against the sink, looking like he owned gravity itself. His black polo stretched across his chest, straining against the effort, as if it resented the assignment. His eyes flicked over her, lazy and unimpressed, not bothering to hide the judgment. "High again?" His voice was low, unreadable, like the question didn’t matter but the answer did. "I cleaned the lobby, mopped twice, took out the trash." She shrugged, brushing past him. "I’m functional." His hand caught her wrist—light, but firm enough to make her pulse skip. His fingers were warm, and when she looked up, his gaze was sharp. And wrong. For a split second, his eyes weren’t brown. They shimmered—silver-blue, like frost catching moonlight. Then it was gone. Like a glitch in the air. Rina froze. He didn’t. “You play with fire,” he murmured, voice low but heavy, as if the words had weight. “You ever wonder what happens when it stares back?” Her breath caught, confusion mixing with something darker. "What the hell does that mean?" He let go of her wrist. She turned to leave, pretending the encounter hadn’t unsettled her, pretending the hum of heat on her skin wasn’t still lingering from where he’d touched her. But the words echoed in her head. Because Ari had said something once, long ago—scrawled in purple glitter pen, in the last journal entry Rina still kept: "Something’s watching. It’s in the gaps. And it knows we remember." The alarm started blaring—some embarrassing pop song she’d once liked in high school and never bothered to change. It jolted her awake, and she groaned, slamming her hand down to shut it off. “Shit,” she muttered, blinking at the screen. “I’ve got like 45 minutes to get ready and get to work.” She moved on autopilot—cold water to the face, minty toothpaste burning away the stale aftertaste of sleep and maybe regret. Clothes were thrown on, hair half-brushed, and a dab of concealer smeared under her eyes to hide how little she’d slept. But none of it helped that buzzing tension still clinging to her skin. By the time she clocked in and stepped onto the floor, she looked normal. Functioning. Smiling just enough. She even greeted Kade like she always did—dry sarcasm, quick glances, no proof that anything had changed. But something had. Because even as she restocked the ketchup packets and wiped down the counter, her mind was spinning. That dream. His eyes. The way he spoke like he knew something. You play with fire. It had felt real. Too real. And now, watching him out of the corner of her eye, she couldn’t stop wondering: What the hell did that dream mean? And worse—was it even a dream? Kade was already in the back, leaning over the supply sheet, scrawling something in his tight, impatient handwriting. The same black polo. The same scent—clean soap, fryer oil, and something faintly sharp, like ozone before a storm. He didn’t look up when she passed, but she felt it—his awareness. Like he could track her without turning. “Need you on register,” he said, voice clipped. “Got it,” she replied, her tone neutral, almost bored. She slipped behind the counter, punching in with fingers that still felt shaky. He was acting normal. Or… almost normal. But something in the way he stood felt off—too still, too poised. Like he was waiting for something. Like he remembered, too. An hour into her shift, while wiping down the ice cream machine, she caught him staring. Not a casual glance. Not managerial oversight. Just… staring. His eyes met hers across the kitchen—brown now, not silver—but still unreadable. Still sharp. Her stomach flipped. He looked away first. And that should’ve helped. But instead, it made her skin crawl. Like she’d been seen in a way that went deeper than the surface. Like the dream had been a warning. Rina turned back to the machine, scrubbing harder than necessary, jaw tight. In her apron pocket, her fingers brushed the folded scrap of paper she always carried—a torn page from Ari’s old journal. A line underlined twice in glittery ink: “It doesn’t always wear a face you fear. Sometimes, it wears one you crave.” The lunch rush came and went, a blur of beeping registers and greasy wrappers. Rina moved like muscle memory—smiling, nodding, upselling nuggets with just enough charm to not get written up. She kept telling herself everything was fine. That she was just tired. That her brain was making things up again, like everyone always said. Then Kade brushed past her. It was nothing, really—just a quick squeeze through the tight prep line. But as his shoulder grazed hers, the hairs on the back of her neck rose. Cold. Sharp. Like walking through static. “You alright?” he asked, too casually. But his voice was just a little too smooth, like a practiced lie. “Peachy,” she muttered, not looking up. He lingered a moment longer than necessary. Then: “Dream anything interesting last night?” Her hands stilled on the register. “What?” Kade didn’t repeat himself. Just moved on like he hadn’t said it at all, calling out an order number without even looking back. But Rina couldn’t breathe for a second. Her chest felt too tight, her skin too loud. She pulled out the scrap of Ari’s journal again on her next break, holding it like a talisman. Her eyes scanned that same sentence—“It doesn’t always wear a face you fear. Sometimes, it wears one you crave.” She suddenly wished she hadn’t craved him at all. The rest of her shift passed in a daze, her nerves like live wires beneath her skin. Kade didn’t say anything else. Didn’t have to. Every time she passed him in the narrow space between the fryer and the back freezer, she felt it—the tension, the knowing. Like he was watching her without looking. Like he was inside her head, sifting through memories that weren’t his to touch. She stayed late without being asked, cleaning the machines until her hands ached and her uniform clung to her like second skin. Anything to avoid the locker room. The silence. Him. By the time she clocked out, it was close to midnight. The lot outside was almost empty, just a few cars under flickering lights. She pulled on her hoodie, shoved her headphones in—but didn’t press play. Just needed the illusion of control. Then she saw him. Leaning against the hood of a beat-up blue Civic, hoodie up, arms crossed like he hadn’t aged a day since high school—Caleb. Rina blinked. For a second, she thought maybe the dream was still bleeding through. But then he smiled—nervous, uneven, familiar. Real. “Hey, Rina.” She froze halfway across the parking lot, heart suddenly tangled in her ribs. He looked older. Softer around the edges. But his eyes still held that same careful worry. Like he could see the cracks she kept hidden from everyone else. “…Caleb?” Her voice barely made it past her lips. He nodded, hands shoved in his pockets. “Been a minute.” She didn’t move. Couldn’t. “What are you doing here?” He hesitated. Then said, quiet but certain: “I remembered her too.”
생성자 snuggly puppy
콘텐츠 세부 정보
미디어 정보
사용자 상호작용
이 AI 작품에 대하여
설명
창작 프롬프트
참여
snuggly puppy
snuggly puppy
“You can’t forget someone who branded your soul.” As Rina sits on the park bench, lighting up her weed and taking slow, deliberate breaths to calm her nerves, the weight of everything hits her at once. A few moments later, she sat on a splintered park bench, hoodie up, legs crossed, letting the last rays of sunset paint shadows over her worn sneakers. The smoke curled around her face as she took slow, deliberate breaths, trying to ease the tightness in her chest. But it wasn’t working. Not really. Years of anger, sadness, and quiet despair surge through her like a soda bottle shaken too many times—finally bursting open after being sealed tight for far too long. Her phone buzzed again, vibrating insistently on the edge of the bench like an unwanted reminder. Probably her mom—checking in with that strained cheerfulness. Or her aunt, always asking questions without waiting for answers. Or maybe Raya, sending another cryptic message or passive-aggressive meme. She didn’t check. Didn’t care. Instead, she let it ring out, the screen lighting up and fading like a heartbeat she refused to acknowledge. The noise dulled into the background as she let her shoulders slump and her thoughts drift. Everything around her—the park, the rustle of wind through trees, the distant sound of traffic—blurred into a quiet hum. She welcomed it. That rare, fleeting silence. That strange, stolen moment of peace where she could finally disappear, even if just inside her own mind. A soft dissociation, a protective numbness, wrapping around her like a blanket she didn’t have to explain. She’s a girl who’s learned to hide her pain behind sarcasm and smirks, who keeps her rage on a leash but feels it constantly straining. Strong-willed yet emotionally exhausted, she walks through life with a practiced toughness that barely conceals her vulnerability. She’s a thinker—always analyzing, always questioning—but never truly feeling safe enough to let go. And now, with the smoke curling around her and silence all around, she finally lets herself feel it. The smoke slid down her throat like guilt—bitter, familiar, impossible to ignore. She held it there, eyes drifting half-shut as if the haze could soften the weight pressing on her chest, then exhaled slowly toward the sky watching it curl and disappear like secrets she couldn’t speak. Just like always, Rina clocked in with that dead-eyed smile she’d perfected over the years—tight-lipped, polite, just enough to avoid questions. She moved like muscle memory, like routine: headset on, fries dropped, fake cheer in her voice for customers who didn’t look her in the eye. A dance she’d done so many times it no longer felt like living. It was just... surviving. Between rushes, when the line thinned and no one was watching too closely, she’d slip into the bathroom stall and lock the door like it was sacred space. Sit on the lid, hoodie pulled over her head, hands braced on her knees. Breathe. Try not to fall apart. Sometimes she stared at the graffiti carved into the metal door, just to focus on something that wasn’t the rising panic in her chest. Other times, she just sat there, fighting tears she didn’t have time to cry. Wondering what the hell she was doing. Who she was. If this was all her life would be—grease, silence, and pretending. And when her ten-minute break ended, she’d wipe her face, stand up, and pull that same hollow smile back on like armor. Clock out of her breakdown. Clock back into reality. After a brutal 12-hour shift, Rina barely managed to change from her work clothes before collapsing onto her bed. Sleep claimed her instantly—no ceremony, no resistance—just the weight of exhaustion dragging her under. The mattress, worn and uneven, still felt like a cloud compared to the cold tile floors and fluorescent lights she’d been trapped under all day. She hadn’t slept properly in days, and now, wrapped in silence and shadows, her body finally surrendered. Rina stirred beneath a tangled blanket, half-lost in the haze of sleep, her body heavy with exhaustion but her mind wide awake in a dream that felt too sharp to be fiction. She was back in her room, except it wasn’t quite hers—walls faded and flickering, textbooks stacked like monuments around her bed. Pages fluttered as if caught in a phantom wind, scrawled with ink-drenched theories, erratic sketches, and pieces of a name she couldn’t stop writing even in her dream. Ari. It pulsed from the paper like a heartbeat. Her childhood friend. Her shadow. The girl who vanished without warning—and worse, without memory. In the dream, Rina sat up, heart thudding, watching her notes twist into something unfamiliar. Nobody remembered Ari. Not their teachers. Not their classmates. Not even Ari’s own mother, who once braided her hair every morning and called her moonflower. It was as if the world had swallowed her whole and stitched itself closed without leaving a scar. She was erased. Erased so thoroughly, so surgically, that Rina sometimes doubted her own sanity. But the memory clung to her—not like a photograph, but like shattered glass buried deep in mud, glittering only when the light hit just right. Broken pieces. Slivers of laughter, blood-red ribbons tied to swings, late-night whispers about monsters in the woods. And those eyes—Ari’s eyes—always watching, always knowing. In her dream, Rina reached for the name again, but the ink bled across the page, vanishing. She woke up gasping, fists clenched in her sheets, heart pounding like she was still there—somewhere between memory and myth. Sometimes, it’s hard to tell where reality ends and the lies begin. Like the world is wearing a mask, and she’s the only one who can see the cracks. The smiles, the reassurances, the routines—they all blur together until nothing feels solid. Until even her own memories feel like stories she’s told herself one too many times. It was ten years ago when Ari vanished. No body. No headline. Just gone. Erased. No one cared. But Rina did. She always had. Even when her twin sister called her obsessed. Even when her dad told her to stop "making shit up" and that she needed to be mentally evaluated. Even when her mom went quiet, to the point where a pin could drop, looked her in the eye, and didn’t say she was wrong. Her dream was shifting—warping, pulling her back to the grind of her shift. The familiar hum of fluorescent lights, the sticky floor beneath her sneakers. Rina was coming out of the washroom, mind still foggy from sleep, when a knock jolted her. Sharp. Male. Not one of the girls. “Rina.” His voice cut through the air, smooth but laced with something darker—velvet dragged over a blade. “Close is done. Need you out here.” Kade. Her manager. Her irritation. Her complication. Her obsession, unfortunately. She clenched her jaw, feeling the weight of his words even in the haze of her dream. She reached into her purse, the familiar motion almost automatic, biting down on a peppermint to clear the taste of stale air from her mouth. A quick spritz of body mist behind her ears, the faint floral scent mingling with the cold artificial air. She tucked the still-warm blunt into an Altoids tin, sliding it back into her purse alongside the spare clothes and gum she always carried. Insurance. Her father had a wolf’s nose and a preacher’s rage, both equally capable of sniffing out her secrets. When she stepped out, Kade was leaning against the sink, looking like he owned gravity itself. His black polo stretched across his chest, straining against the effort, as if it resented the assignment. His eyes flicked over her, lazy and unimpressed, not bothering to hide the judgment. "High again?" His voice was low, unreadable, like the question didn’t matter but the answer did. "I cleaned the lobby, mopped twice, took out the trash." She shrugged, brushing past him. "I’m functional." His hand caught her wrist—light, but firm enough to make her pulse skip. His fingers were warm, and when she looked up, his gaze was sharp. And wrong. For a split second, his eyes weren’t brown. They shimmered—silver-blue, like frost catching moonlight. Then it was gone. Like a glitch in the air. Rina froze. He didn’t. “You play with fire,” he murmured, voice low but heavy, as if the words had weight. “You ever wonder what happens when it stares back?” Her breath caught, confusion mixing with something darker. "What the hell does that mean?" He let go of her wrist. She turned to leave, pretending the encounter hadn’t unsettled her, pretending the hum of heat on her skin wasn’t still lingering from where he’d touched her. But the words echoed in her head. Because Ari had said something once, long ago—scrawled in purple glitter pen, in the last journal entry Rina still kept: "Something’s watching. It’s in the gaps. And it knows we remember." The alarm started blaring—some embarrassing pop song she’d once liked in high school and never bothered to change. It jolted her awake, and she groaned, slamming her hand down to shut it off. “Shit,” she muttered, blinking at the screen. “I’ve got like 45 minutes to get ready and get to work.” She moved on autopilot—cold water to the face, minty toothpaste burning away the stale aftertaste of sleep and maybe regret. Clothes were thrown on, hair half-brushed, and a dab of concealer smeared under her eyes to hide how little she’d slept. But none of it helped that buzzing tension still clinging to her skin. By the time she clocked in and stepped onto the floor, she looked normal. Functioning. Smiling just enough. She even greeted Kade like she always did—dry sarcasm, quick glances, no proof that anything had changed. But something had. Because even as she restocked the ketchup packets and wiped down the counter, her mind was spinning. That dream. His eyes. The way he spoke like he knew something. You play with fire. It had felt real. Too real. And now, watching him out of the corner of her eye, she couldn’t stop wondering: What the hell did that dream mean? And worse—was it even a dream? Kade was already in the back, leaning over the supply sheet, scrawling something in his tight, impatient handwriting. The same black polo. The same scent—clean soap, fryer oil, and something faintly sharp, like ozone before a storm. He didn’t look up when she passed, but she felt it—his awareness. Like he could track her without turning. “Need you on register,” he said, voice clipped. “Got it,” she replied, her tone neutral, almost bored. She slipped behind the counter, punching in with fingers that still felt shaky. He was acting normal. Or… almost normal. But something in the way he stood felt off—too still, too poised. Like he was waiting for something. Like he remembered, too. An hour into her shift, while wiping down the ice cream machine, she caught him staring. Not a casual glance. Not managerial oversight. Just… staring. His eyes met hers across the kitchen—brown now, not silver—but still unreadable. Still sharp. Her stomach flipped. He looked away first. And that should’ve helped. But instead, it made her skin crawl. Like she’d been seen in a way that went deeper than the surface. Like the dream had been a warning. Rina turned back to the machine, scrubbing harder than necessary, jaw tight. In her apron pocket, her fingers brushed the folded scrap of paper she always carried—a torn page from Ari’s old journal. A line underlined twice in glittery ink: “It doesn’t always wear a face you fear. Sometimes, it wears one you crave.” The lunch rush came and went, a blur of beeping registers and greasy wrappers. Rina moved like muscle memory—smiling, nodding, upselling nuggets with just enough charm to not get written up. She kept telling herself everything was fine. That she was just tired. That her brain was making things up again, like everyone always said. Then Kade brushed past her. It was nothing, really—just a quick squeeze through the tight prep line. But as his shoulder grazed hers, the hairs on the back of her neck rose. Cold. Sharp. Like walking through static. “You alright?” he asked, too casually. But his voice was just a little too smooth, like a practiced lie. “Peachy,” she muttered, not looking up. He lingered a moment longer than necessary. Then: “Dream anything interesting last night?” Her hands stilled on the register. “What?” Kade didn’t repeat himself. Just moved on like he hadn’t said it at all, calling out an order number without even looking back. But Rina couldn’t breathe for a second. Her chest felt too tight, her skin too loud. She pulled out the scrap of Ari’s journal again on her next break, holding it like a talisman. Her eyes scanned that same sentence—“It doesn’t always wear a face you fear. Sometimes, it wears one you crave.” She suddenly wished she hadn’t craved him at all. The rest of her shift passed in a daze, her nerves like live wires beneath her skin. Kade didn’t say anything else. Didn’t have to. Every time she passed him in the narrow space between the fryer and the back freezer, she felt it—the tension, the knowing. Like he was watching her without looking. Like he was inside her head, sifting through memories that weren’t his to touch. She stayed late without being asked, cleaning the machines until her hands ached and her uniform clung to her like second skin. Anything to avoid the locker room. The silence. Him. By the time she clocked out, it was close to midnight. The lot outside was almost empty, just a few cars under flickering lights. She pulled on her hoodie, shoved her headphones in—but didn’t press play. Just needed the illusion of control. Then she saw him. Leaning against the hood of a beat-up blue Civic, hoodie up, arms crossed like he hadn’t aged a day since high school—Caleb. Rina blinked. For a second, she thought maybe the dream was still bleeding through. But then he smiled—nervous, uneven, familiar. Real. “Hey, Rina.” She froze halfway across the parking lot, heart suddenly tangled in her ribs. He looked older. Softer around the edges. But his eyes still held that same careful worry. Like he could see the cracks she kept hidden from everyone else. “…Caleb?” Her voice barely made it past her lips. He nodded, hands shoved in his pockets. “Been a minute.” She didn’t move. Couldn’t. “What are you doing here?” He hesitated. Then said, quiet but certain: “I remembered her too.”
8 months ago