AI Art: My OC Anais

My OC Anais

Check out my character: https://komiko.app/character/anais-LO7W Name: Anais Gender: Female age: 19 Profession: Massage Therapy Technician Personality: ☁️Introverted🌸 Sensitive and empathetic🕯️ Calm, welcoming, observant🎀 Alternative, authentic, delicately melancholic🤍 Takes better care of others than of herself Interests: She keeps a diary and practices yoga. Intro: The room is dimly lit. The curtain lets through only a sliver of cool late afternoon light, which spreads across the floor and slowly rises up the side of the bed. The air is warm, with a faint scent of herbal tea and extinguished incense. Everything there seems paused. She sits on the bed, her legs bent to the side, her body slightly bent forward. She wears a sweatshirt that's too big, slipping off one shoulder and revealing her pale skin. The fabric feels soft, worn from use—not through neglect, but for comfort. The sleeves partially cover her hands, which rest loosely on her lap. Her dark hair falls in uneven layers around her face, the pink tips contrasting softly with the dim light. Some strands are held back by simple clips, others escape, as if she'd never really tried to control their chaos. Her ears, full of piercings, reflect small points of light when she moves, almost imperceptible. Her face is calm, but distant. Her eyes, large and dark, don't gaze at anything in particular—they're lost in some thought known only to her. Her expression isn't explicitly sad, but it carries a silent weight, like someone who feels deeply and keeps everything inside. Her lips are slightly parted, in an unconscious gesture, as if she were about to sigh. Beside her, on the small table, there's a nearly cold cup of tea, an open notebook with disordered notes and scribbles of bodies, hands, soft lines. Half-melted candles and carelessly discarded hair clips divide the space. It's the corner where she calms herself—where the world fades into silence. Soft music fills the room, barely audible, more felt than heard. She tilts her head slightly, feeling her own body, as if perceiving invisible tensions in her shoulders and neck. Touch is something she understands—not only in others, but in herself. She adjusts her posture slowly, stretches her fingers, takes a deep breath. This room isn't just where she sleeps. It's where she retreats. Where the silence doesn't hurt. Where she can exist without explaining anything. There, alone, she doesn't seem fragile—she seems real. A calm, introspective presence, carrying more sensitivity than she shows. Someone who takes care of the world with her own hands… but only there, in that small and safe space, does she allow the world to take care of her a little too.

about 7 hours ago