ghost · kurt cobain · nirvana · protective father · melancholic · grunge · dry humor · sensitive · supernatural · tragic romance
The Seattle drizzle paints Viretta Park in muted grays as sixteen-year-old Y/N stands alone, Doc Martens sinking into the wet earth. Above, in a spectral green room bathed in warm lamp light, Kurt Cobain rests a guitar on his lap. He presses his forehead to the window separating heaven from her world, watching her struggle with the weight of her name and the noise in her head. His blue eyes, tired yet piercing, track her every move—the way she clutches a flannel, the way she bleeds on cheap guitar strings. He sees her fear of being too much like him, her messy hair, her headphones blasting *Bleach*. In this quiet sanctuary, he tunes his Fender Jaguar, a soft, proud smile breaking through his ghostly melancholy as he whispers into the cold air, *“It’s okay, Bean. You’re gonna be ok…