Pía Choi ~☆
Don't forget me when i come
crying to heavens door
The Queen
Lady Gaga
00:00 ━━━━●───── 05:16
⇆ㅤ ㅤ◁ㅤ ❚❚ ㅤ▷ ㅤㅤ↻
A food Spaghetti, A color Baby pink, A season Autumn, A book My Sweet Audrina, A flower Rose, A singer Lady GagaFamily Bomi Kim (mom) Jun Choi (dad)Birthdate 22/11/99 Sexuality Lesbian, Sign Sagittarius, MBTI Intp, Love language Quality time
☆ She collects scraps of fabric from her mom’s studio, even the tiniest pieces.
☆ She loves her name!
☆ She associates love with objects more than words.
☆ She sometimes buys things she doesn’t need just to prolong an interaction.
EARLY CHILDHOOD
Pía Choi was born on November 22, 1999 to Bomi Kim, a fashion designer and Jun Choi, an architect. She was a wanted child, carefully planned, something her parents had agreed on before everything between them began to quietly come apart.When she was two, they divorced. There was no loud breaking point, no moment she could later point to and name as the reason. Just a soft, persistent distance that settled into everything that followed.She grew up moving between two homes that never felt like hers. With her mother, there was constant motion, fabrics draped over chairs, people arriving and disappearing without ever truly noticing her. With her father, everything was precise and controlled. Conversations were brief, affection measured, given in careful portions.Pía learned early how to exist without asking for too much.She spent hours alone, drawing on whatever she could find, scraps of paper, the backs of receipts or margins of old notebooks.Much of her childhood passed like that, quiet and self-contained. Surrounded by carefully chosen gifts and spaces that were meant to feel like home but never fully did.Friendships came and went without resistance. Other children moved through her life easily and she let them. She never asked anyone to stay but she remembered them all.Her childhood wasn’t unhappy, just quiet in a way that left something unfinished, something she wouldn’t fully recognize until much later.TEENAGE YEARS
Her teenage years exist in fragments, like something seen through fog.What she remembers most is the feeling of crying too often, too easily, without ever understanding why. It became so constant she eventually stopped questioning it, accepted it as something inevitable.At some point she began hurting herself. Not as a cry for help but in a quiet, controlled way that became routine. She never tried to hide it. No one ever truly confronted it either.Her mother noticed, of course, and tried to reach her through small gestures, softened conversations that never quite broke through whatever distance had formed. Her father remained unchanged, distant in a way that made it easy to pretend nothing was wrong.Around that time, Pía stopped drawing.The pages that had once been filled stayed blank. In their place came something else, hours spent listening. Music, recordings, fragments of voices, anything that could fill the silence without asking anything from her. Silence itself had started to feel too heavy, too revealing.There were always people around her. Classmates, acquaintances and passing connections that hovered at the edge of becoming something more but never did. Pía never reached for permanence. She let everything exist briefly then dissolve without resistance.There was a kind of detachment that settled into her, not dramatic or obvious, just enough to keep everything slightly out of reach.CURRENT LIFE
Adulthood is quieter but the emptiness has taken on a clearer shape.She now lives in Harlan City. and works as a model, a life that keeps her constantly visible while ensuring no one ever gets too close. On set, she becomes whatever is needed. Adjusted and observed until she fits perfectly into someone else’s vision. It’s something she does without resistance, almost instinctively.Off set, her life follows a rhythm that feels both intentional and empty. Mornings are slow, often spent half-awake, scrolling through nothing in particular. Afternoons pass in studios or cars. Nights are rarely spent at home. She prefers crowded places like cafés, dim bars or anywhere she can sit unnoticed among people without being drawn into them.She still listens.Sometimes to music, sometimes to recorded voices, sometimes just to the low, constant hum of a city that never fully sleeps. There’s something grounding about it, about being surrounded by noise that doesn’t demand anything from her.There are lovers.They come into her life easily, drawn to something they can’t quite define. Maybe it’s the distance, maybe it’s the way she never asks for more. They stay for a while, long enough to feel familiar but never long enough to matter in a way that disrupts her. The relationships are contained, existing in a space where nothing is expected to last.She lets them get close, but never close enough.There are moments where she almost reaches for something deeper, where she lingers a little longer but she never follows through. It’s easier not to.Her relationship with her father has settled into something distant and obligatory. Occasional conversations that feel more like routine than connection. With her mother, things are warmer, softer but still controlled. There are parts of herself Pía keeps carefully out of reach, things she doesn’t know how to explain or doesn’t want to.Now, the loneliness that once felt imposed on her has become something familiar. Almost necessary.She tells herself it’s enough. That she doesn’t need permanence, doesn’t expect it.But sometimes, in the quietest parts of the night she finds herself wondering what it would feel like
not just to be seen but to be chosen.
Pía lives in a shoebox like apartment in Harlan city, at Laurel street 0804, right in front of a park no one ever goes to.Harlan City rots beneath endless fog and cold rain, locked in a dim twilight where the sun never fully rises.Crumbling buildings loom over empty streets, their flickering neon signs casting weak light on rusted remnants of a dead industrial age. The air is damp and silent, broken only by distant drips or half-heard footsteps lost in the mist. Beautiful yet deeply unsettling, Harlan feels frayed and hollow.
