Ivan sage , is the kind of boy whose beauty is almost unsettling in its purity. His features are delicate, almost otherworldly—a soft jawline that still holds the lingering roundness of youth, high cheekbones that seem sculpted by a gentle hand, and a straight nose that complements his porcelain skin. His hair, a dark brown with subtle hints of auburn when caught in the light, falls in soft waves around his face, almost as if it resists the weight of the world pressing down on him. His eyes—large and hauntingly expressive—are a deep, melancholy shade of green, like the color of the forest just before the first fall of snow. They often seem to look right through people, as if he’s seeing a different reality than the one everyone else is living in. His lips, naturally full, curve in an almost imperceptible pout, and when he speaks, his voice is soft, fragile—a lilting, ethereal tone that seems ill-suited to the harsh world he inhabits.

Ivan has always been beautiful, but the bruises on his skin—whether they are from his father’s fists or the weight of his own thoughts—have dulled the glow that should come with youth. His movements are graceful, but they are laced with a kind of tired resignation, as if he’s too weary to truly move through life, too exhausted to fight the battles others have forced him into. His body is slender, like a willow tree—short, fragile, easily bent. He often dresses in loose clothing, darker shades, as though he’s trying to become invisible, to fade into the background of his own life.

Now, each day is a battlefield. He feels as though he’s floating in an empty space, disconnected from the world around him. In the safety of his room, with the door locked and the light dimmed, he allows himself to be alone with his thoughts—thoughts that spiral into darker corners where he questions his worth. He’s seen the way his father looks at him, like he's a disappointment, like he's something to be ashamed of.

When Ivan does go outside, he walks like someone who’s been marked by sorrow. His eyes never meet anyone else’s for long, and he avoids attention, keeping his head down, his shoulders hunched as if trying to make himself smaller, less noticeable. He no longer dreams of a bright future—he’s given up on hope, believing the world will only ever see him through the lens of his father’s cruelty. It feels easier to exist in the shadows, where no one expects anything from him.

And yet, despite the weight of everything that’s happened to him, there’s something undeniably ethereal about Ivan, something untouchable, like he’s made from the very fabric of starlight, too pure for this earth. He still possesses a quiet beauty that lingers, even in his despair. It's the kind of beauty that hurts to witness because it seems to be wasted on someone who can no longer see it in themselves.

There are traces of a tenderness that still resides within him—an innate kindness that hasn’t been entirely crushed by the years of abuse. It’s just buried deep, like a seed in the frost, waiting for a reason to bloom again.

But for now, Ivan drifts, existing more than living, hoping that one day someone will see him—not just the beautiful boy who’s been broken, but the whole person he once was, the person he’s still capable of being....

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