snow-on-the-upperwest

[snow-on-the-upperwest]

"Webhead...?"

Personally, in love with this one because I tried out my new 0.5mm Inking Nib and tried not to get too carried away with Scraping and held onto getting more sketching done.

<3

[snow-on-the-upperwest]

"Don't flirt with my sister..."

Here's the first of the ones I tried. Didn't get too far but key moments note down. It sums the whole thing up.

<3

[snow-on-the-upperwest]

She didn’t look back. Not right away. That would’ve been too obvious.

But she heard him—boots clunking unevenly on the pavement, the jangle of keys and zippers from the guitar case, the faint shuffle of someone still trying to get their bearings. And that stupid voice—low, nervous, velvet-wrapped vowels wrapped in London drizzle—lingered in her ears longer than she liked.

“I’m just quite late for my band practice…”

Blaire rolled her eyes at herself.

Please. That should not have hit like it did. But it did. And now her brain was conjuring up all kinds of visuals—him on stage, hunched over his guitar, eyes closed like he was bleeding emotions through chords. All broody and infuriating and weirdly magnetic.

She cursed under her breath and turned a sharp corner into a quieter street. Her pace slowed.

What was that?

She hated that she’d noticed how long his lashes were. Hated that she’d caught the way his hands—ink-stained fingers—gripped the strap of his guitar like it was the only thing keeping him grounded.

Ugh. No. Bad Blaire. Don’t romanticize the walking Tumblr post who nearly dislocated your shoulder.

And yet…

She heard footsteps behind her. Slower now. Hesitant. Like he wasn’t sure if he should say something or let her vanish into the noise of the city.

She paused, halfway down the block. Turned slightly, just enough to catch his silhouette in her peripheral vision.

"I hope your Band's not called Ghost Milk or something. From experience, It flops harder than She-Hulk-"

But she was smiling now. Not wide, not sweet. Just enough to show him she wasn’t walking away this time.

And when their eyes locked again—hers glinting, his still full of that raw, unfiltered chaos—something shifted.

Not enemies. Not friends. Not yet.

Just a dangerous maybe.

Lower East Side. Thursday. Smells like burnt pizza and bad decisions.

Blaire Willow was supposed to be grabbing a late lunch and maybe stealing a quiet corner at Joe's Pizza to journal in peace. That was the plan. The universe, as usual, had other ideas.

First, a food delivery drone crashed into a lamppost.

Then, a guy with a guitar case nearly took her out by walking across the sidewalk like he owned the runway—except with more denim and less grace. Her height didn't match her aspirations, and yet, she went right into his shoulder, feeling it jab against her head.

She looked back with a soft, “What the hell—”

She blinked. Tall. A Jacket that looked like it hadn’t known a washing machine since 2019. A Guitar case clutched like a lifeline.

Of course.

She adjusted her bag on her shoulder, looking him over with all the unimpressed energy of a tired New Yorker spotting another aspiring star. He looked like Alex Turner if she squinted enough.

She turned, with a concerned look, biting her lip in embarrassment that seemed mutual.

"All good, mate?"

No answer. Just a slow glance up and an expression that screamed, Why are you talking to me?

She snorted. “Right. Social skills aren’t part of the aesthetic, huh?”

She turned, ready to keep walking. But then paused. Her curiosity twitched like it always did right before she made a terrible decision.

Blaire looked over her shoulder and muttered under her breath, “I swear, if you end up on my block and start busking outside my window, I will file a noise complaint in five seconds flat.”

Still... she didn’t walk away. Not yet. Just stared at him like a challenge she hadn’t decided if she wanted to take.

Because...he wasn't emo, no. Just...too dark for Upper-East morning.

-- @snow-on-the-upperwest

Josh being Josh had completely forgotten about band practic with the rest of his band mates. He was too busy being fixated on his work to pass his first year of Law School, even though it had only started two months ago. Yes, of course his band mates were his friends, yet they couldn't help but ponder at how he had gotten such a good education and they hadn't. Then again, they didn't exactly care too much about school.

So, Josh packed up his electric black and white guitar with his normal arctic monkeys and nirvana shoulder strap and absolutely sprinted his way down the main high street, turning tight corners with a small skid before carrying on in the direction of the recording studio. However, all that running can make the world around you look like a blur, which it did for Josh, and when the world looks like that, you can be a little bit clumsy with your surroundings, which is what exactly happened to him.

Bam! His right shoulder was completely rammed into the middle of someone else's bicep. Josh turned hurriedly, with wide eyes like a deer in headlights. He never liked social interactment and here he was, standing right in front of a girl, looking about the same age as him. The "I'm sorry" string loop continued circling through his brain yet never came out as words in the end.

The girl took the first shot out of the dark with a question of "All good, mate?" Josh wanted to reply but couldnt help gazing at her. She was a little bit shorter than himself, yet somehow looked equally as gorgeous. The emerald lace in her ocean blue eyes twinkled in the 11am sunlight, her hair shimmered like a chocolate sea and her skin was smooth as silk. No texture to be seen anywhere. She looked stunning and he coudn't rip her eyes off of her. So much so, that all the words she had said had muffled into complete silence. It was only until he woke up from his daylight fantasy dream did he realise that he missed absolutely everyting she said.

He stuttered and mumbled, trying to find the right strin of words to put together before saying;

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to bump into you, I'm just quite late for my band practice..."

[snow-on-the-upperwest]

"We never go out of style."

hey you. the name’s Blaire Willow. Or Ellie, personal enough. eighteen, loud, and caffeinated, straight outta Queens with the city’s heartbeat wired into my bones. I’m your classic New Yorker with chipped nail polish, an attitude problem, and an unnatural obsession with street tacos, vintage engines, and the sound of something fast tearing through 7th Ave.

While some folks move here chasing dreams, I was born into the drama. Super-suits in the sky, explosions on 5th Ave, Stark Tower throwing shade over Central Park — yeah, that’s my daily. And guess what? I document it all, watching gods and monsters fight it out while I roll my eyes and mutter, “Typical Tuesday.”

I live where the skyline screams freedom and danger in equal parts—where you can get the best bagel of your life at 3 AM right before a flying alien crashes into the corner deli. That’s right, I live in New York. Heroes above, villains below, and me? I’m somewhere in between, watching it all go down from my fire escape with a pen in one hand and a bodega coffee in the other.

I keep the cut-outs. The headlines. I write what they don’t say. Not because I’m trying to be a reporter or anything—I’m just… documenting survival. The chaos. The aftermath. The way the city breathes when Spidey swings by or when some Stark prototype explodes four stories up from my favorite ramen joint, or some weirdo alien cult blowing up a deli, you’ll find me front-row, scribbling it all down. This city raised me fast. Made me bold. Gave me stories.

And I’ll keep telling them.

Sometimes I blog it. Sometimes I journal it. Sometimes I just live it.

I love loud music, even louder engines, overpriced milkshakes, and anything that makes my heart race. I’m not a hero, not a villain—just your average girl trying to keep up with a city that never slows down.

Fast cars. Fast lives. And zero time for boring. I love anything that roars — engines, street food, my playlist at 2am. If it sparks joy, I’m in. And so, it goes.

Yours always, a 1989-er with bite. – Blaire