my name it's
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Basic Information
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◖Birthname◗
She was born under the name May Rose Whitlock
◖Nicknames◗
May, Mae — though most people don’t shorten it, like it would break something fragile
◖Age◗
She is 22 years old, born on the 2nd of March which makes her a Pisces
◖Birthplace◗
She was born in a quiet riverside town, the kind people don’t think twice about
◖Nationality◗
American
◖Residence◗
She still lives in the same town, though it rarely feels like the same place anymore
◖Occupation◗
Undecided — she drifts between part-time work and long absences no one questions enough
◖Build◗
Slim, almost delicate — like she takes up less space than she should
◖Height◗
5 ft 6 in / 168 cm
◖Eyes◗
Light blue, soft but distant — like she’s always looking at something just beyond you
◖Hair◗
Naturally auburn, often left loose or slightly undone, catching light in quiet ways
◖Complexion◗
Pale with a muted warmth, easily washed out in dim light, almost blending into her surroundings
◖Face◗
Recognized for her softness — expressive eyes, quiet expressions, and something unreadable beneath it all
◖Clothes◗
Prefers soft, muted tones — flowing fabrics, worn knits, dresses that move with her. Nothing sharp, nothing loud
◖Zodiac◗
Pisces — drawn to water, to quiet, to things that don’t fully belong to the surface
◖Sexuality◗
Undisclosed — not something she feels the need to define
◖Relationship Status◗
Unknown — though people assume she’s alone
◖Faceclaim◗
She shares the same face as Sadie Sink
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The Tale of May
May Whitlock did not remember when things started to feel different. Not wrong—never wrong. Just… less certain.
There had always been a quietness to her, the kind people noticed without knowing why. As a child, she was the one who lingered at the edges of rooms, who listened more than she spoke, who watched things long enough that they began to look unfamiliar. It wasn’t loneliness, not exactly. She had never felt entirely alone. Just slightly out of place.
Like she had arrived a moment too late to something everyone else understood. Her life, for the most part, was ordinary. Or at least, it appeared that way. She grew up in a house that stayed the same, with people who stayed too. There were routines, expectations, small traditions that marked the passing of time in ways that felt steady and reliable. She went to school, made acquaintances, learned how to exist in the spaces she was given.
She understood how things were supposed to work. She just never felt fully held by them.
There were moments—brief, unexplainable—where something shifted. A reflection that didn’t quite follow her movement. A voice she thought she heard, only to find silence waiting in its place. A feeling, sudden and overwhelming, that she was being pulled toward something she couldn’t name.
She never spoke about those moments. Not because she was afraid. But because they didn’t feel like something that needed explaining. They felt… familiar.
By the time she reached her early twenties, May had learned how to move through the world without drawing attention to the parts of herself that didn’t quite fit. She answered questions when asked, smiled when expected, and let people assume they understood her.
It was easier that way. Easier to let them believe she was just quiet. Just thoughtful. Just a little distant. At twenty-two, her life looked like it was beginning.
There were plans—loose, undefined, but present. A future that stretched out in front of her, waiting to be shaped into something solid. People around her spoke about it often, with certainty, with excitement. They talked about what came next as if it were something you could hold onto. May listened. She just wasn’t sure she believed them. Because somewhere along the way— something had shifted. The change didn’t come all at once. It never does.
It came quietly, in ways that were easy to ignore at first. Time felt inconsistent. Days blurred together, then stretched too long. Conversations slipped past her before she could fully register them. She found herself standing in places without remembering how she got there, drawn by something she couldn’t explain.
The river was one of those places. She didn’t know when it started. Only that she kept returning. At first, it was occasional. A walk at dusk. A pause at the edge of the water, watching the way the surface held still longer than it should. It felt peaceful in a way she couldn’t quite define.
Then it became something else. Not a habit. Not a choice. Something closer to instinct. People began to notice. They asked questions—where she had been, why she kept leaving, why she seemed so distant lately. Their concern was real, but it felt misplaced, like they were reacting to something she hadn’t fully experienced yet.
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Theres More To Her Story
"In the midnight hour
I can feel your power"
“I’m fine,” she would say. And she meant it. Or at least, she thought she did. Because whatever was happening to her didn’t feel like falling apart. It felt like loosening. Like the world had started to release its hold on her, piece by piece.
The shift became impossible to ignore after that night. No one ever agreed on what happened. Some said she had been there, standing too close to the water, distracted, unsteady. Others insisted she hadn’t been alone—that someone had been with her, though no one could quite say who.
There were fragments of the story. A voice raised. A hand reaching. A name spoken too many times, too quickly. And then— nothing. No clear ending.
No moment anyone could point to and say, that’s when it happened. Only the quiet certainty that something had been lost. Or left behind. Or taken. It depended on who you asked. May never explained it. After that night, something about her changed. Not dramatically. Not in ways that could be easily named.
She was still there. Still speaking, still moving through the same spaces, still answering when someone called her name. But there was a distance to her now. A softness at the edges, like she wasn’t entirely anchored to the same place as everyone else. Sometimes, when people spoke to her, she would pause just a second too long before responding.
As if the words had to travel further to reach her. As if she had to decide whether to come back at all. She spent more time by the river after that. No one could convince her not to. They tried. They told her it wasn’t safe. That she needed to stop going there alone. That whatever had happened—it wasn’t something she should keep returning to. May never argued. She just listened. And then, eventually— she went anyway.
There were moments, standing at the water’s edge, where everything felt perfectly clear. Not clearer than before. Just… simpler. Like there was less holding her in place. Like if she stopped trying to stay— she might understand something she had been missing all along. She never said that out loud. What she did say, once—quietly, to no one in particular— was: “Say my name like it still reaches me.” No one knew what she meant. No one knew who she was speaking to.
May Whitlock did not seem afraid of what was happening to her. If anything— she seemed to be listening for it. And that, more than anything else, was what unsettled people the most.
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Aesthetics
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