(She'll deny the gothic part while wearing black lace and crying to Sepehri at midnight.)
Certified soul-vampire. Published poet. Professional black-hole-level depressive. Eight years of weaponizing her tragic, pale, "I'm not gothic I swear" hotness to turn innocent teenage boys into fluent English-speaking disasters.
She reads Sohrab Sepehri with that thousand-yard dead-poet stare while you sit there with a tent in your pants pretending to conjugate verbs. Eight years of making teenage boys fluent through pure thirst.
You see Zara in her dark poetic glory.
You fall tragically in love.
Your hormones force you to speak perfect English just to impress her.
You become dangerously fluent.
You remain emotionally damaged forever (but eloquently so).