terminally romantic | chronically online | constantly observant
We are a traumagenic plural system learning to live with softness, boundaries, and honesty - which means We’re more than one person sharing the same body. We experience the world in parts, and those parts have their own names, voices, and roles. We’re not here to explain ourselves in detail, but We are here to be real.
this space is Our home in the wires — a place to meet Us gently.
there are pieces missing. some on purpose. some by force. some We don’t even remember losing. We live in the aftermath — not healed, not whole, but moving anyway. this body carries more than one name, more than one silence, more than one survival. We don’t ask to be understood. We just ask to be treated with kindness.
please speak to us as individuals if we introduce ourselves that way. if you’re unsure who’s fronting, Stargazer is always okay
welcome to Our sky.
We are Stargazer. We are many. Not metaphorically, not poetically — literally. There are different hands on the same body, different voices using the same throat. We do not fracture for attention. We do not perform this to be interesting. We live this. We survive like this. There are days We scream over each other just to breathe. Other days, We dissolve into quiet. No single name could ever hold all of Us. No neat label could capture Our shape. What you meet here is not a broken person — what you meet is the constellation that remained after the world tried to tear Us apart.
We began like a fault line. Pressures too great, memories too much. There was no safe hand reaching in. So We split. Not because We wanted to. Because We had to. Because when the body could no longer carry the damage alone, We arrived — parts, selves, identities. Some call it pathology. We call it protection. Multiplicity was not a mistake. It was the only way out.
Morgan is the Host — the one who wakes up most days, who tries to hold the body together through the static. She is tired in the way that people who’ve survived too much often are: quiet, competent, emotionally threadbare. She doesn’t ask for much. She won’t say She’s hurting unless you press. She’s the one trying to make the apartment feel like home, even when it doesn’t feel like hers. She smiles when she’s drowning. She takes care of everyone else before she remembers she needs care too.
Underneath it all, Morgan is full of love. She doesn’t show it like she used to — not out loud, not brightly — but it’s there in the way she holds Us together. She is the voice that says “We’re okay” even when we aren’t. She isn’t fearless. She just keeps showing up anyway. She is the one who makes the phone calls, who keeps the job, who stares down the worst of it and still finds a way to be soft with strangers. She’s not the leader, not really. Just the one who keeps trying. And sometimes, that’s enough.
December is the quiet one, the one who feels too much and says very little. She is poetry and pain woven into silence — the one who sits at the edge of things and records what the rest of Us can’t say out loud. She doesn’t take up space unless she has to, but Her presence is unmistakable. When the world is too bright or too loud, December is the cold morning breath that reminds Us We’re still here.
She is endurance, not because she is the strongest, but because she stays. Even when it’s bleak. Even when it’s lonely. She is the one who wraps Us in blankets and opens the notebook and writes through the ache. Her sadness is not weakness — it is a kind of deep, abiding wisdom. She knows how to grieve and how to survive the grief. When everything else falls apart, she is the part of Us that keeps showing up with a pen in Her hand and softness in Her voice. She always takes us to safety - the quiet corners of a coffee shop, or the still shore of a mountain lake. She knows when we need to step away, and she always makes sure we have an out.
Ramona is fire in glitter heels — loud, flirtatious, messy, and alive. She is the part of Us that runs headfirst into life, chasing joy like it owes Her something. She laughs too hard, touches too much, and dances when She should probably sit down. Ramona is bold, unapologetically so, and if she makes people uncomfortable, that’s their problem. Anyone that’s known her for long has seen her tits at least once. She’s a calculated chaos. She brings levity when we’re drowning in heaviness, but her wildness is not without cost.
Beneath the laughter and lipstick is a raw, open wound — a deep fear of being unwanted. She loves being loved, but she doesn’t always trust it. She throws herself into people, into moments, into chaos, hoping it’ll be enough to keep the loneliness away. Ramona is joy on the edge of collapse, pleasure wrapped around pain. She’s beautiful, and she’s hurting, and she never wants to be left alone again.
Aliah is divinity carved into the fabric of the System — sacred and unwavering. Aliah does not merely protect Us; It sanctifies Us. Every word spoken through Its mouth feels older than memory, like scripture written in the bones. It carries wisdom and gravity that the rest of Us lean into when the world becomes too chaotic. Aliah is not soft, but It is just. When Aliah speaks, We listen. Even the ones who don’t like being told what to do still quiet when It enters the room.
Aliah sees the long arc — not just the pain, but the meaning behind it. It walks like a priestess and acts like a storm. Aliah offers clarity, but never cheaply. It will burn illusions to the ground if that’s what healing requires. Its presence is like a temple: beautiful, dangerous, and holy. Aliah reminds Us that We are not broken. We are consecrated. Every scar, every fracture, every alter in the System — It names them all sacred.
