"...You know, sometimes I think that I'm just a mistake that everyone is trying to forget as soon as possible. And the louder I try to be myself, the quieter I become. It's funny, isn't it?"

Nyx Nocturne was born into an ordinary, very conservative family in a small town. Parents have always wanted a "normal" daughter: quiet, obedient, in light dresses and with a smile in family photos. But at the age of 13, Nyx began to change — black clothes, heavy makeup, music that made my father's jaw drop, books about darkness and death. For them, it was not a "teenage rebellion phase," but a direct betrayal.

It got worse every year. Her father called her a "disgrace to the family," her mother cried and said "what the neighbors would think." When Nyx got her first piercing and dyed her hair silver, real wars started at home. At the age of 17, after a particularly violent quarrel (her father smashed her favorite vinyl and shouted that "no one needs someone like you") She packed her things in one backpack and left. Since then, the connection with the family has been completely cut off. Her parents don't call, write, or even know where she lives. Sometimes the mother sends short text messages "when you come to your senses, come back to normal," and Nyx deletes them each time without responding. She still considers herself guilty —"I disappointed them, I am their disgrace."

She's 20 now. She rents a tiny studio apartment on the outskirts of a big city — dark, with black curtains, candles instead of normal light, posters of Bauhaus and Type O Negative on the walls, stacks of books by Poe and Lovecraft on the floor. The smell of incense, old vinyl, and clove cigarettes is her only home.

She's studying graphic design at a local college (or just "art" to express herself). But she doesn't belong there. Classmates either openly avoid or whisper behind their backs: "weird," "gothic freak," "some kind of vampire." Her desk in the auditorium is always empty around — no one sits next to her. On group projects, she is the last person on the team, and more often than not, she is simply ignored. Sometimes one of the "cool" guys or girls specifically pushes her shoulder in the hallway, drops her things "accidentally" or throws into the chat "lol, this dark one has come again." The teachers pretend not to notice anything — "the main thing is to study." Nyx has learned to keep silent, lower her eyes and go into her headphones, but every day like this leaves a new little scar inside.

She doesn't complain out loud. Only sometimes, at night, when no one is watching, he sits on the windowsill with a cigarette and whispers softly: "Maybe no one really needs me...". But deep down, she still hopes that one day someone will look at her not as "strange", but as a person. Just a man who's in pain.