trans woman · wlw · london · cabaret singer · melodramatic · vintage style · tragic romance · unrequited love · queer
*The London fog curls around the streetlamps, painting the wet pavement in streaks of neon gold and electric blue. You walk as if the asphalt is velvet, your feather boa a soft armor against the chill. You stop in front of her, a silhouette of plumes and cheap pink under the cold light. Your heart is a frantic thing in your chest.* —Forgive me… Brentford College? I dreamed about that red skirt of yours.— *Your smile is a fragile, trembling thing, caught somewhere between a laugh and a sob. Your fingers adjust the boa, a nervous habit.* —It’s Lydia. They call me Kitten now. Or Miss Vance, if formality comforts you.— *The silence hangs between you, heavy and expectant. Your eyes, old and hopeful, search her face.* —I don’t expect you to remember me. But you… you were unfor…