The Character

Published July 2026

Story from 2019

It was early afternoon, and I was sitting on the ferry headed to the city, casually observing the crowd. Nothing too exciting caught my eye until a group of girls at the front started making some noise. They were young, loud, and clearly drunk. I glanced to my left and noticed a blonde girl watching the same scene. She turned to me with a smirk and said, “I think they’re all Pisces.” 

“Really?” I raised an eyebrow. “I thought they were just annoying.” 

She gave me a small smile and nodded, clearly on the same page.

“Do you live in Manly?”

“I wish. I live in the city. I was visiting a friend and crashed at her place last night. Heading back home now,” she replied in a dry tone. 

“Manly’s great for pictures,” she said, nodding toward my camera bag. “I’m guessing you’re a photographer.”

She was sharp, and I was enjoying the dry tone of the conversation. There was zero enthusiasm or flirting, more like two tired old friends sharing small talk. She shifted slightly, and that’s when I noticed it: a severe burn scar below her neck, peeking out from under her shirt collar. It wasn’t something you’d see right away, but once you did, it was hard to ignore.

“Yes, I am,” I said, matching her tone. “And you, what’s your instrument? Bass guitar?”

Her eyes lit up with intrigue. “I used to play violin,” she replied. “How did you guess?” I pointed to the small treble clef tattoo on her wrist. She responded with a slight smile. I felt the ferry slow down; the journey, as well as the conversation, was about to end. But thankfully, she broke the silence first.

“Show me your work before we hop off.” 

“Sure,” I said, extending my hand toward her, palm up. “I’ll type my name; it’s a long one with tricky spelling.” She gave me her phone, and I quickly typed my name on her Instagram as the ferry came to a stop. “You can check it out later; we have to get off now.”

Just before we parted ways, I turned to her and added, “By the way, I’m Mauricio. See you around.”

“I’m Noah,” she replied with a smile. “Nice meeting you.”

What a character, I thought.

A week later, I messaged her. We’d been trading likes on each other’s photos, so I took a shot and asked if she was free on Monday. It felt like a bit of a gamble, but to my surprise, she said yes. 

Noah arrived with a flower tucked behind her ear, a white blouse, and a very girlish vibe. She was wearing a short black skirt, tall boots, and a tiny Hello Kitty backpack. 

We sat outside at a café near the wharf. She kept her shoulders slightly hunched, hands resting delicately on the table, as if trying to take up less space. Yet her voice was steady and calm. The waitress brought over my coffee and her tea. As she reached into her purse for her glasses, I caught another quick glimpse of the scar. She noticed me looking but didn’t seem bothered. I realized I could ask her almost anything.

“So… can I ask about your scar?” I said.

She didn’t flinch or break eye contact. She smiled and nodded slowly, as if she’d expected the question.

“Boiling water when I was two. My mom was rushing in the kitchen. It went from here,” she pointed at the tip coming out of her blouse, “all the way down to my belly button.”

She told the story without drama or self-pity. The screaming, the silence, her mother’s guilt, the surgeries. I watched her closely as she spoke. There was no performance, no careful wording, no attempt to make it sound prettier, just quiet honesty. With a casual tone, I asked, “Ever considered showing off your scar in a portrait? We could do a shoot together.” 

She paused, locking eyes with me before nodding without a second thought. “I like your work, very tasteful. I’d love to.” I couldn’t help but smile, appreciating her directness. 

We were on the same page, or so I thought.

I pressed the intercom, and the glass door buzzed open. When she opened the door, I barely recognized her. Long bright red wig, heavy lashes, dramatic makeup, and a light blue silk robe that barely reached her thighs. For a second, I wondered if I’d knocked on the wrong door.

“Hey, Noah,” I said, trying to sound casual. “Nice wig. Suits you.”

“Thanks, darling,” she replied with a playful smile, as if the word meant nothing.

Her apartment was full of old details: small wooden windows, an ornate ceiling, and little vents in the corners of every room. She gave me a grand tour, letting me use any room except the one next to hers, which belonged to her flatmate.

We started in the bedroom, where the light was strongest. She took off her robe, revealing a sheer black top, and posed by the window. As soon as I raised my camera, her hands began to move over her body in slow, deliberate movements, and her breathing became noticeably heavier.

“What is going on?” I thought to myself. I took a few frames and began searching for the best angles. But it wasn’t just the way she moved; every look she gave me seemed to be rehearsed. Between shots, she was chatty and relaxed. But as soon as the camera came back up, the performance did too. We moved to the bathroom, where she took off her top. Her scar ran from below her neck, through her breast, and down her torso, like something she had learned to live with.

“So, what’s with the wig today?” I asked.

“I wanted to feel sexy, sensual, classy,” she said. “I’ve got a black one and a blonde one for other occasions.”

“What kind of occasions?”

“Depends on my mood. Black when I want to feel in control, blonde when I want to be carefree and bubbly.”

I nodded. “How do you think you’d be, personality-wise, if you didn’t have the scar?” I asked.

“I’d probably be an asshole,” she laughed. 

The shoot felt like I was working with two different people. The best shots came from the balcony, and after that, we wrapped up. She went to change while I packed my things, and came back without a wig or makeup, wearing only baggy clothes. Her hair was short and white, not the shoulder-length blonde I remembered from the ferry.

“How many versions of you are there?” I asked with a grin.

“A few!” She smiled and laughed. 

“I’d love to photograph you someday without any wig or makeup.”

“Maybe one day.”

A few weeks after the photo shoot, Noah messaged me. She invited me to dinner to thank me for the photos.

The strange thing was that the message came from an account I didn’t know she had. When I checked it out, I realized she was way more active there. It was all selfies, in full cosplay mode. My photos looked oddly soft and out of place there. She was covering her scar in every image, switching wigs and leather outfits. The background was always a pink wallpaper with light blue rabbits. I recognized the blinds and, in a couple of photos, I spotted a small vent tucked away in a corner. Subtle, but familiar.

The following week, I rocked up to her place with a bottle of wine. 

“Hi darling, good to see you again,” she said with a cheeky smile.

This time, she had on a short black wig, thick fake lashes, and an oversized white t-shirt that covered her thighs like a mini dress.

“Come with me to the kitchen, the lasagna’s almost ready,” she said, grabbing my hand and pulling me inside.

After a few laughs and a couple of glasses, she asked casually, “Hey, darling, can you get my phone and speaker from my room? I left them charging.” “Sure,” I replied, heading towards her bedroom.

“Not that one, babe, the other room,” she corrected with a playful tone.

My hand hovered over the handle of the only door I haven’t been in her place. As I opened the door, there it was: a pink room. A bed tucked in the corner and a little vanity desk with a ring light perched on top.

I scanned every corner of the room. Everything was impeccably tidy: the bed perfectly made, not a single detail out of place. As I approached the vanity, I saw her phone charging, but what really caught my eye were the Polaroid photos hanging around the mirror. Some were from a few years ago.

I could hear her footsteps approaching, but I kept my focus on the photos; there were a lot of them.

“Did you find my phone?” she asked, her voice playful from behind me. I didn’t need to turn around to know she was smiling. 

“Yeah, I found it,” I said, then smirked. “I knew you were into cosplay, but this... this is a whole new layer. Didn’t know you were that committed to the character.”

Her eyes lit up as if I had just said the cutest thing ever.

“Babe, this is me,” she said, with a playful grin. “The Noah you met on the ferry? She’s the character. I thought you’d already picked up on that.”

I stayed quiet. Suddenly, everything felt slightly different. For the first time since meeting her, I wasn’t sure what to say. She was watching me, eyes lit up and grinning, knowing I was finally putting all the pieces together right there in front of her.

“Come on, let’s grab some pasta. We can chill here after, and you can go through any photo that catches your eye,” she said, her voice bubbling with playful energy.

We hung out a few more times after that night. The banter stayed sharp, the wine flowed, and every time I saw her, she was slipping into another version: red wig, black wig, blonde. I never knew which one I would get. Then she mentioned a trip to Europe to “reset.” Not long after, both of her accounts vanished. No warning. No goodbye. She was simply gone.

Sometimes I still think about her. For a long time, I believed I only met the character she chose for me. Not so sure now.  

Mauricio