Future
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"You'll never make me stay so take your weight off of me
I know your every move so won't you just let me be
I've been here times before but I was too blind to see
That you seduce every man this time you won't seduce me"
MAEVE
Irish | "she who intoxicates"
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MARJORIE
Latin | "Pearl"
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HOWARD
English | " watchman"
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THE BASICS
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◖Birthname◗
She was born under the name Maeve Marjorie Howard
◖Nicknames◗
She goes under the names of Mae, M, Maeday or Howard
◖Age◗
She is 30 years old, born on the 29th of May which makes her a Gemini
◖Birthplace◗
Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, USA
◖Nationality◗
American
◖Residence◗
A Penthouse in Manhattan, New York City, New Jersey
◖Occupation◗
She is an artist and curator at The Museum of Modern Art in New York City
◖Build◗
She has a slim figure which frames her body pretty well
◖Height◗
By the imperial units standards she is 5 ft 10 in but by the metric system she is 178 cm
◖Eyes◗
She has some stunning blue eyes
◖Hair◗
She was born with blonde hair, which she is currently enjoying
◖Complexion◗
She has quite pale skin, which fits her pretty well
◖Features◗
She has plump lips, a small face and a hawk like nose, which frames her face nicely
◖Clothes◗
Her style has gotten far more sophisticated, she often wears nice shirts, dresses, blazers and so on.
◖Zodiac◗
She was born under the astrology sign of the Gemini
◖Sexuality◗
Bisexual
◖Relationship Status◗
She is curently dating Harrison Barker
◖Faceclaim◗
She shares the same face as Hunter Schafer
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PERSONALITY TRAITS
❀ SARCASTIC▪ adjective | /sɑːˈkastɪk/
marked by or given to using irony in order to mock or convey contempt.
"making sarcastic comments"
❀ INTROVERT▪ adj | /ˈɪntrəvəːt/
a shy, reticent person.
another term for introverted.
•❃°•°❀°•°❃•
❀ CARING ▪ adj | /ˈkɛːrɪŋ/
displaying kindness and concern for others.
"a caring and invaluable friend"
❀ EMPATHETIC ▪ adj | /ɛmpəˈθɛtɪk/
showing an ability to understand and share the feelings of another.
"she's compassionate and empathetic towards her daughter"
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THE FUTURE OF MAEVE
New York City did not welcome her. It absorbed her. By twenty-nine, Maeve had built a life that looked, from the outside, like something deliberate.
She lived in a narrow apartment with tall windows that overlooked a street that never slept. The kind of place where the light changed constantly, where mornings felt sharp and evenings stretched long into something softer. There were books stacked in uneven piles, sketches she never showed anyone, and a silence she had learned not to be afraid of.
She worked in galleries that spoke in quiet tones and sharp opinions. Rooms filled with people who understood value in ways that had nothing to do with money, and everything to do with feeling. Maeve moved through those spaces with precision—measured, composed, observant. Always watching. Always understanding more than she said.
She had become good at that. Maeve did not talk about where she came from. Not because it was a secret. But because it was irrelevant to the person she had chosen to be. There were fragments, of course. There always were.
Moments that surfaced without warning—usually late at night, or in the space between one thought and the next. Memories that didn’t ask permission. Feelings that arrived fully formed, sharp and familiar. She let them pass through her. Most of the time. Her work was where it showed. Not openly. Never obviously.
But anyone who paid close enough attention could feel it—the tension beneath the surface, the careful balance between control and collapse. Maeve curated exhibitions that didn’t ask to be understood. They asked to be experienced. To be endured. Rooms that lingered too long in the chest. Pieces that made people shift uncomfortably, unsure of what exactly they were reacting to. Maeve never explained. She didn’t need to.
There had been a time when she chased absence. Now, she studied it. The space left behind by things that disappeared. The shape of what remained. The quiet after chaos. The stillness that followed survival. It fascinated her. Maybe because she understood it too well.
People described her as composed. Elegant, in a way that felt intentional rather than effortless. She dressed in clean lines and dark tones, as if she had stripped herself down to only what was necessary. There was nothing accidental about her anymore—not her words, not her movements, not the way she occupied space. It hadn’t always been like that. But she didn’t think about that version of herself often. Not unless something forced her to.
"That's okay
Hey, baby, do what you please
I have the stuff that you want
I am the thing that you need"
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THERES MORE TO HER STORY
"She looked me deep in the eyes
She touchin' me so to start
She says there's no turnin' back
She trapped me in her heart"
There were still moments. Of course there were. Healing, Maeve had learned, was not a destination. It was maintenance. A series of choices made quietly, repeatedly, without ceremony. Some days were easier than others. Some nights stretched longer than they should.
There were hours where her mind moved too quickly, where sleep felt unnecessary, where ideas came faster than she could hold them. And there were others where everything slowed—where even getting out of bed felt like something that required negotiation. She recognized the patterns. She respected them. She did not let them decide for her.
Sobriety was not something Maeve celebrated. It was something she protected. Carefully. Relentlessly. There were no declarations. No milestones she shared with others. Just a quiet understanding that everything she had built depended on it. That one moment of carelessness could undo years of effort. That knowledge never left her. And she didn’t want it to.
At thirty, Maeve curated her first major exhibition alone. It wasn’t her biggest. But it was the first that felt entirely hers. The theme was simple. What remains. Not what is lost. Not what is broken. What stays.
The opening night was crowded. Voices layered over one another, conversations blending into a constant hum. Glasses clinked softly. Shoes echoed against polished floors. The kind of atmosphere Maeve had once found overwhelming. Now, she moved through it with ease. Not because it had changed. But because she had.
Someone asked her, at some point, what inspired the exhibition. Maeve paused. Considered the question. “Persistence,” she said finally. It was the closest thing to the truth she was willing to give.
Later, when the gallery emptied and the noise settled into silence, Maeve remained. She always did. There was something about being alone in those spaces that felt necessary. Like seeing the work without interference. Without interpretation. Without expectation. Just the art. And herself.
She stood in the center of the room, surrounded by pieces that spoke in fragments—light, shadow, absence, presence. For a moment, she let herself feel it. All of it. Not the past itself. But the distance from it.
Maeve Howard had not outrun her life. She had not erased it. She had built something alongside it. Carefully. Deliberately. Piece by piece. And for the first time, that felt like enough.
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SIGNATURE
