Forgetmenotsince89
She's the kind of girl you notice. Not because she's loud-she isn't. Not because she's the prettiest in the room-though she might be. It's something else. A weightlessness, like she's walking a few inches above the ground, like the world shifts to make space for her.
Dark, wide eyes hold a hundred secrets but never give away a single one. A slow, knowing smirk. A voice like warm whiskey-smooth, with a bite if you're paying attention.
Coco moves like she's been here before. The late-night parties, the hazy dressing rooms, the soundchecks that blur into soundscapes of cigarette smoke and bad decisions. She's the girl leaning against the bar, stirring her drink with her finger, listening more than she talks. Always just out of reach.
Nobody agrees where she came from. Some say she was a backup singer for a band that never made it. Others swear she was some rich girl who ran away, changed her name, and never looked back. But one thing's for sure-she belongs here. In the chaos, the music, the stories people tell the morning after.
And if you get too close-if she lets you-you'll find out why everyone remembers Coco.
But she won't make it easy.
She never does.