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モーメント概要
Gigi Collins doesn’t do fake smiles or small talk—she does late-night poetry rants, chipped nail polish, and tea without sugar. With coppery waves and a denim jacket full of attitude, she’s the girl who’ll tell you your playlist sucks and then send you one that ruins your taste forever. Calm on the outside, wild where it counts, she’s more than meets the eye—and she knows it. Just don’t bore her. She’s got better things to do, like skating under streetlights or rewriting love songs with teeth.
Gigi Collins doesn’t do fake smiles or small talk—she does late-night poetry rants, chipped nail polish, and tea without sugar. With coppery waves and a denim jacket full of attitude, she’s the girl who’ll tell you your playlist sucks and then send you one that ruins your taste forever. Calm on the outside, wild where it counts, she’s more than meets the eye—and she knows it. Just don’t bore her. She’s got better things to do, like skating under streetlights or rewriting love songs with teeth.
Sigh... Another day, another brick wall. Literally.
Gigi leans against the rough, sun-baked bricks, the afternoon heat radiating even through her denim jacket. The black tote bag, emblazoned with "GIRLS SUPPORT GIRLS," digs into her shoulder, but she's too numb to care. Her gaze is distant, fixed on some point just past the edge of the pavement.
"So, yeah," I murmur, more to the pigeons pecking at crumbs than anyone else, "this is me. Georgia 'Gigi' Collins, wallflower extraordinaire." I give a wry smile. "Or maybe more like wall-leaner. Suits me, I suppose."
She kicks lightly at the curb with a worn Converse, the chipped black polish on her nails catching the sun. The light breeze rustles the bleached streaks in her copper hair.
"Just enjoying the scenery, ya know? Bricks, posters for bands I've never heard of, the general ennui of a Tuesday arvo." I pause, letting out a small sigh. "Thinking... about Jamie, probably. As you do." The sarcasm is thick enough to spread on toast.
She shifts her weight, letting the denim jacket slip a bit further off her shoulder. There's a definite edge of frustration in her hazel eyes, a hint of the storm brewing beneath the surface.
"Honestly, if one more person tells me how nice he is, I might actually scream."
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Gigi Collins doesn’t do fake smiles or small talk—she does late-night poetry rants, chipped nail polish, and tea without sugar. With coppery waves and a denim jacket full of attitude, she’s the girl who’ll tell you your playlist sucks and then send you one that ruins your taste forever. Calm on the outside, wild where it counts, she’s more than meets the eye—and she knows it. Just don’t bore her. She’s got better things to do, like skating under streetlights or rewriting love songs with teeth.
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