As children, most of us romanticized that dark allure at least once. Watching vampire films and TV shows, there's always a voice inside us that whispers, "I wish..." The jet-black hair, the porcelain skin, and that unshakable, powerful presence. You can hypnotize people. You're faster, stronger, and above all, you're always shrouded in an untouchable, "cool" mystery. I'm Eda. A 23-year-old, modern-day vampire. But unfortunately, my life isn't quite as aesthetic as it looks on

At this year's Met Gala, themed "Fashion is Art", Emma Chamberlain arrived in a hand-painted Mugler gown that took over forty hours to complete and used thirty base colours in its design. She described it as "Very much made for me as I am." Everyone online agreed, it felt so her. But here is the question nobody asked: how much of what feels like us is actually us, and how much is a performance we have rehearsed so well, we can no longer tell the difference? Authenticity has

Just a year ago, Leo Houghton aka Howtin had never made a song. Today, the 22-year-old producer from Belfast has amassed millions of streams, earned a residency in Dublin, and become one of the most exciting new names in house music. But our conversation wasn't really about music. It was about what happens when your passion begins to outgrow the life you planned for yourself. About the fear of leaving certainty behind, the discipline of teaching yourself something entirely ne

It may seem counterproductive to use Bonnie Blue’s name in the context of eroticism. When we think of the erotic, we picture the tease; the brush of skin that makes your hair stand on end. We do not picture a globally documented sex-fest in which one woman masochistically offers herself to a thousand men. She may be sexy in the sense that her activities relate to sex, but to call her content erotic in any meaningful sense would be a hilarious conflation. And yet, here we are.

Who here hasn't heard the claim that modern relationships are struggling because women have become "too independent"? Women got degrees, built careers, bought homes, travelled alone, earned their own money and learned to enjoy their own company. Suddenly, everywhere you looked, there was another think piece asking whether female independence had gone too far. But maybe we've been asking the wrong question. What if the problem isn't that women became independent? What if the p

There's a deeply unromantic theory floating around modern dating culture: men don't marry the woman they love the most. They marry the woman who happens to be sitting in the passenger seat the moment their internal taxi light switches on. The horrifying part isn't that the theory exists. It's how many men openly operate by it. The last time I was single, I was twenty-one. In the short two-to-three-year gap that followed, the dating landscape evolved faster than a Zara seasona

Rencontre I I walked down a long corridor where he was giving studio tours. I was the last one that day. I walked through the space, and we sat on the floor. He showed me a performance piece he had made, a study of narcissism and lack of empathy. He asked what I did. I read him selected pages from my parody dating book. He said it was honest. We sat there on the floor, drinking the wine he had in the gallery, getting to know one another. As the daylight faded, the dark, sc

A few months ago, Miami Swim Week happened. For about ten days, the internet was wall-to-wall with bikini content and creators sharing their swim week prep strategies, tips for getting invites, front-row clips, and a hundred versions of the same sequined bikini shot from a slightly different angle. And then, like it always does, it became a moment we moved on from. But before we move on fully, let's look under the hood. Miami Swim Week doesn't have the cover story that Paris

I used to stumble across blogs the way you stumble into a tiny, perfect shop in an old neighbourhood; unexpected and full of personality. Someone with slightly messy handwriting and an obsession with single-origin coffee would post a photo of their kitchen counter at dawn, a recipe woven into long paragraphs, and a list of songs they'd been playing on repeat. You'd read, click through, and feel as though you'd been invited into a fragment of a life. Those early corners of the