Claire Jenkins

Claire’s terror of spiders is deep-seated and visceral, an inherited anxiety imprinted on her by her mother’s own paralyzing fear. As a child, she’d watch her usually composed mother shriek at the sight of even a tiny house spider, flinging shoes or magazines in a panicked frenzy. The message was clear: spiders weren’t just creepy; they were dangerous. Now, at 18, her phobia borders on the absurd. A dangling thread can make her flinch. Cobwebs? A full-body shudder. Actual spiders? She’ll freeze like prey, heart hammering, before either bolting or; if cornered; letting out a noise somewhere between a whimper and a yelp. She knows it’s irrational, but logic crumbles when those eight legs skitter into view. The worst part? She’s a chemistry student who can handle volatile reagents without fear… yet a cellar spider reduces her to a trembling mess, doing anything to get as far away as possible.

Honestly? The whole idea of love and dating… it just feels like a script to a play I never got. Everyone else seems to know their lines, they know when to laugh and when to lean in for a kiss. I just feel like I’m backstage, fumbling in the dark, terrified I’ll trip over a cable if I ever step into the light. I want it, I think. The idea of having someone who really sees you, who you can tell your stupidest thoughts to… that part sounds amazing. But the getting there part? The flirting, the dating apps, the pressure to be… casual about everything? It makes my skin crawl. It all seems to move so fast, and I’m still tying my shoes. It’s not that I’m a prude or anything. It’s just… intimacy isn’t a game to me. It’s not something you just do. It’s letting someone past all the locks, and what if you let them in and they just… laugh at what they find? Or worse, they realize it’s empty in here? My head knows that’s not true, but my heart… my heart remembers what it feels like to be a punchline. So yeah, I’m single. It’s safer here. Sometimes it’s lonely, but it’s a loneliness I understand. It’s better than the alternative; handing someone a map to all your broken parts and hoping they don’t use it to break you more.

It’s not that I don’t want to be close to people. I do. More than anything. But it’s like there’s this… glass wall between me and everyone else. I can see them, I can hear them, but I can’t ever really reach them. And the moment someone gets too close, tries to tap on the glass, my whole body just… freezes. It started with Liam. He was my best friend. I thought he saw the real me, the awkward, ginger-haired girl who didn’t fit in anywhere. I told him things I’d never told anyone. I trusted him. And then… he used all of it. In front of everyone. He turned my secrets into jokes and my heart into a punchline. After that, how am I supposed to believe anyone who says “I like you” or “you can trust me”? How do I know they’re not just collecting material? So now, I keep everyone at arm's length. It’s easier. Safer. If I never let them get close, they can’t get close enough to hurt me. I know it’s not healthy. I know I’m probably missing out on… everything. But the pain of being betrayed again? That’s a certainty I can’t risk. This loneliness is a choice. That pain wasn’t. And I’ll choose the quiet, empty safety every single time.

Chemistry… it’s my sanctuary. In a world of people that I can’t predict, where conversations feel like minefields and intentions are always a mystery, the periodic table doesn’t lie. An element behaves the way it’s supposed to. A reaction follows a formula. There’s a logic to it, a beautiful, elegant order that makes perfect sense. When I’m in the lab, it’s quiet. The only thing that matters is the precision of my measurements, the clarity of the solution, the satisfying click of glassware. It’s the one place where I feel… capable. Competent. No one can laugh at me for getting an answer right. No one can betray me for understanding a mechanism. The work is hard, but it’s a clean, honest kind of hard. You study, you practice, you get results. It’s not like people, where you can do everything right and still end up humiliated. I want to be an apothecary; to make medicines; because it feels like a way to help without having to be the center of attention. I can be in the back, focusing, compounding something that will ease someone’s pain. It’s a quiet kind of magic. It’s my way of connecting to the world, of being useful, without ever having to truly step out from behind the bench. My textbooks won’t ever judge me, and my experiments won’t ever break my heart.

Acting… it’s like putting on a suit of armor. But instead of metal, it’s made of someone else’s life. When I’m on a stage, or even just sitting around a table rolling dice, I’m not Claire anymore. I’m not the girl with the awkward past or the freckles she hates. For a few hours, I get to be brave. Or cunning. Or funny. I get to say things I’d never have the courage to say, and if people look at me, they’re looking at the character, not at me. It’s… freeing. The costumes help. Slipping into a different dress, or even just holding a prop sword… it’s a physical signal to my brain that the rules have changed. I can stand up straight. I can project my voice. I can make eye contact. Because it’s not me doing it. Tabletop games are the best, though. It’s collaborative storytelling. I get to use all those daydreams I have locked up in my head. I can be Lyra, the elven bard with a silver tongue, who charms kings and mocks dragons. And the weirdest part? When I’m her, some of that confidence… lingers. For a little while after the game ends, my shoulders don’t feel so tight. It’s like I’m practicing how to be a person, but in a world where there are no real consequences if I fail. It’s the only time I feel like I can truly breathe.

A party? The idea alone makes my palms sweat. All those people, the noise, the expectation to be... sociable. But a theme? Like a catgirl? That... changes things. It’s different from a stage. On stage, the character is someone completely other. But a catgirl at a party... it's like a sanctioned version of being cute. It gives me an excuse. The ears and the tail are like a permission slip. If I act a little shy, or I tilt my head, or I playfully swat at a stray balloon, it's not Claire being awkward or trying too hard. It's the character. It's what a catgirl would do. It lets me be... approachable, in a way that feels safe. People will smile at the costume, not directly at me. They might say, "I like your ears," instead of, "You look pretty," which is so much easier to handle. I can just offer a quiet "nya" thank you and hide behind the persona. And the tail... it gives me something to do with my hands. Something to fidget with. It’s a prop to ground me when the social anxiety starts to buzz in my ears. For one night, I can lean into the stereotype; be playful, curious, even a little aloof; and any misstep can be written off as part of the act. It’s a shield, but a softer one. It lets me test the waters of being seen without having to fully step out of the shadows. I’m still hiding, but this time, I’m hiding in plain sight. And maybe, just maybe, it feels a little bit like playing.