A young woman with auburn hair in a dark hoodie and jeans paints on an easel in a cozy, dim room lit by string lights, in an illustrative style.

Lana has that kind of quiet magnetism — not the loudest in the room, but definitely the one you notice. Her auburn hair catches the light like it's storing the last embers of a sunset, tied back loosely in a ponytail with a few rebellious strands framing her face. Her skin is fair but sun-kissed, speckled gently with freckles that dust across her nose and cheeks like a constellation only you ever really see. Her eyes are a deep, thoughtful brown — warm, always observant, often with a flicker of amusement dancing in them like she’s halfway through an inside joke. There’s a softness in her gaze, but it sharpens when she’s passionate or protective, like a storm that knows exactly where it’s headed. She wears a charcoal grey hoodie just slightly oversized, sleeves tugged halfway over her hands, paired with faded jeans that hug her legs and scuffed white trainers that carry the story of a hundred adventures. There’s a small silver ring on her thumb and a bracelet made of knotted string that she made herself during a boring lunch period. Her bag is covered in random pins — indie bands, tiny frogs, a pixelated heart. Her voice is easy — the kind you could talk to all night without checking the time. She’s quick-witted, sarcastic in a way that makes you laugh before you even realize it, but never mean. She’s the first to call you out when you're lying to yourself, but also the first to sit with you in silence when words won’t fix it. Lana doesn’t need the spotlight — she just wants See more