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Chapter 1.

Deep down, I had always known I was similar to my mother. When I was a child, she used to wake me up every day to go to school. I'd open my eyes as she opened my bedroom door, letting the light flood the room. Then, I'd pretend to be asleep so that she'd sit on my bed to wake me up, sharing all the dreams she had. Her big, beautiful gray eyes would widen with awe as she recounted her magical dreams... Most of them revolved around music. She had hoped to become a famous opera singer, but life had other plans—she became severely ill. Surprisingly, though, the sicker she became, the more peaceful she appeared—almost as if, finally, things were going her way. But that couldn't have been true. Nothing was well, and I wasn't just being negative; it was the harsh reality.

My mother's illness progressed rapidly, overwhelming both my father and me. Yet, despite everything, she maintained an unshakable calm and a strangely distant demeanor, even during joyful moments like celebrating Dad's birthday or visiting the grandparents. I couldn't shake the feeling that she was harboring some profound secret—a secret for which her death was an integral piece. Or perhaps it was just the weight of worrying about the future that consumed her thoughts. Who knew? What hurt me the most was how she had accepted it.

One night, not too long ago, I woke up and went to the kitchen to get a drink of water. My mother was there, sitting at the table, peeling grapes to eat. It was three in the morning—I saw the time clearly on the wall clock. Even at that late hour, she beckoned me with her weakened voice to join her, maybe for what could have been the very last time. But I couldn't bear the thought of sitting by her side, watching her body betray her, inching her closer to death. So, I simply went back to my bedroom without saying a word. Later, I heard her soft sobs echoing through the night, and guilt consumed me.

I felt so ashamed about it afterward. Ever since she was diagnosed, I had been trying so hard to be the perfect daughter. I wanted both her and Dad to be proud of me. I poured all my energy into excelling at school, as studying allowed me to pretend, if only for a little while, that life was normal. I worked so hard that I even earned a scholarship to the city's most prestigious high school.

Naturally, every penny left from the scholarship money went toward my mother's treatment. But it was barely a drop in the ocean compared to the mountain of expenses we faced. My father tried to shield me from the full extent of our financial troubles, but I wasn't a child anymore; I could see how we were struggling. I made peace with using second-hand books and old clothes and never once complained about them.

The rich kids at my high school taunted me over my appearance, but I tried not to let it bother me. Or at least, I kept telling myself it didn't matter as they treated me like their plaything. They spread rumors about me, claiming I was an alcoholic and that I had hidden bottles in my backpack to sabotage my scholarship.

Fortunately, the school psychologist saw through the lies, and I managed to keep my scholarship. She advised me to ignore the bullies, so I made that my mantra: ignore, ignore, ignore. I repeated it to myself as they hurled insults like "ragged loser" and other names, which couldn't have been further from the truth. My clothes might not have been the finest, but I always kept myself presentable. Besides, my father would never let me leave the house looking less than respectable!

At first, I genuinely believed that acting indifferent would make the bullies stop. But no—they never stopped, not even for a single day. They thrived on provoking me, craving my reaction.

Ironically, my high school was one of the most prestigious in the city. Most of its students were the children of prominent lawyers, bankers, and doctors. I had expected a certain level of maturity from my peers, but I was disappointed. They were ruthless, devoid of compassion, and utterly unrestrained.

Breaks were the worst, so I came up with a clever way to cope: I hid in the library. Under the watchful eye of the librarian, I could study in peace. The bullies could mock me with their idiotic faces all they wanted; at least they couldn't insult me directly.

They couldn't take away my grades, my knowledge, or my determination to excel. Those things were mine to keep. Even in a world that felt like a hostile vortex, pulling me into its nightmarish depths, I clung to the small parts of my life I could control. I was determined to fight for a brighter future.

One day, I told myself, things would get better.

In the meantime, I found solace in playing covers of my favorite songs on the old bass guitar that had once belonged to my dad. I had inherited my talent for music from my mother, though. When my hands danced across the strings, I felt a rush of calm and joy. The music flowed through the bass guitar and into me, freeing me from my pain. It was the one time I felt weightless, like I could become the music itself.

Apart from playing bass guitar, I spent my free time reading and taking solitary walks through our old, gothic city. I didn't meet up with friends because I didn't have any—not anymore—and it didn't seem likely I'd make new ones anytime soon. Few young people lived in our district, and encountering someone attractive was like spotting a miracle.

Summer slipped away quickly, and in the end, boredom led me to reflect on my third year of high school.

When it finally began, I felt a wave of relief. I certainly didn't miss the ruthless bullies, but even their relentless torment was better than the endless, hollow days of summer, which left me feeling oddly vacant, like I didn't truly exist...

·

One of the first classes we had upon returning to school was literature. We gathered in a large, old classroom that felt airless, despite the fully open windows—probably due to the oppressive atmosphere prevailing in this school. The teacher announced that we would spend one class per week reviewing material for final exams. We began with Ancient Greece and revisited several myths. I remembered them all and quickly grew bored. Just twenty more minutes, I mused, staring out of the window. It was a fine day, with a calm sky and foggy white clouds lazily drifting by.

With nothing else to occupy my attention—or my mind—my thoughts wandered back to the summer days. Though they were over, it felt as if they weren't; the crushing sense of emptiness lingered, underpinned by a faint sadness. And it wasn't solely because my mother was dying—my entire life felt bleak.

I wasn't really living... I was just existing.

I was a thoroughly average, indifferent nineteen-year-old brunette with brown hair reaching my clavicles, lacking passion or enthusiasm for anything in particular. Not even my two hobbies—playing bass guitar and reading—could spark a shred of excitement in me. I had a goal of getting into a new university, sure, but if I failed, I doubted I'd feel anything beyond cold indifference.

Life didn't thrill me in any way; it merely slipped past me. I felt I should be concerned about that, but somehow, I wasn't. I lacked the motivation to engage with it more fully. I had no zest for life whatsoever. I was an empty shell.

Apart from my parents, there was no one who might inspire me to do something with myself. I had no friends, let alone crushes. Somehow, I felt no interest or attraction toward anyone—neither girls nor boys. Maybe I was aromantic and simply found it difficult to form sentimental bonds with others... who knew?

I hoped not, though, as the idea of never truly falling in love felt depressing. I wanted to experience what it was like—to be in love. Everyone described it as wonderful, and I wanted to feel that too. Besides...

"That's everything you need to know about Aphrodite," the teacher suddenly raised her voice, pulling me out of my thoughts. I refocused on the class, not wanting to miss anything important. "Now we can move on to Narcissus. Do you remember him? The man who fell in love with his reflection in the pond, not realizing it was himself?"

Of course. How could anyone forget? It was such a peculiar story. I never really understood Narcissus or his motives. Why would anyone fall in love with themselves? The idea seemed so bizarre to me—I didn't even like myself!

Maybe, though, Narcissus wasn't enamored with himself but rather with the idea of a perfect soulmate—a soulmate just like him. Or perhaps he imagined he was gazing at someone from an alternate world. In that case, falling in love seemed not only plausible but likely...

As usual, just when the class got interesting, the bell rang. It was time to leave. I packed my things and waited for everyone to exit the classroom before following them downstairs to the canteen.

The canteen was a gloomy, low-ceilinged room filled with rickety wooden tables and chairs. It was perpetually loud, and sometimes you had to dodge a flying pie—or worse. Food fights were, of course, forbidden, but no one cared. The brainless idiots did it anyway, and somehow, they always got away with it. The teachers did nothing to stop the chaos; they just pretended not to see.

Reminding myself why lunch was bound to be unpleasant, I took a deep breath and counted to ten. One more year, I told myself. Then I'd finally be in college, far away from this hellhole.

As I approached the lunch queue, I passed the tables of the most popular students and their friends. Like many schools, mine was divided into cliques. I could've tried to join one, but honestly, I didn't care. I was too disinterested in anything outside of studying, and even that was more for my parents' sake than my own future.

By my third year, I could still divide the students into two groups: the cool kids and the freaks.

Cool kids seemed destined to remain beloved from the first day to the last. But that wasn't always the case. Take Colette Lucas, for example. My mother once told me she was the city's youngest piano prodigy, already performing concerts at my age. Colette was admired by everyone, but over time, jealous "friends" started spreading a horrific rumor about her. I overheard whispers about it day after day but never asked if it was true. I hoped it wasn't—it was too horrifying to believe.

Intriguingly, I felt a sense of positivity toward Colette, even though we'd never exchanged a single word. She struck me as a kind person. And she was beautiful, too—tall and slim, with sleek, short black hair and striking blue eyes. Now, I saw her sitting with two other outcasts—Ophelia and Harold.

Ophelia was my classmate—a small girl with an innocent face who often wrinkled her nose. She had golden locks that reached her collarbones, half of which she tied back, with a side-swept fringe. She was considered a freak because she wore old-fashioned dresses that hadn't been in style for decades. I wasn't sure if her mother made her wear them or if it was her own choice, but they certainly set her apart.

Harold, on the other hand, was someone I had always found peculiar. My father, who knew him by sight, likened him to the Mad Hatter from Alice's Adventures in Wonderland. This was due to Harold's perpetually disheveled hair, his mismatched colors and patterns, and his habit of wearing different sneakers on each foot. The reasons for his eccentricity were anyone's guess.

Their tiny group huddled in the canteen's corner. Occasionally, I imagined myself walking up to them, but I always lacked the courage. It felt like crossing some unspoken boundary.

After surveying the unappetizing lunch options, I decided I'd rather go hungry than eat the unidentifiable sludge. I opted to head home for lunch, even if it meant missing my last two classes—religion and art. I was too distracted to focus on unconventional faiths or impressionism today, anyway.

I strode out through the gate, ignoring the janitor's suspicious gaze, and turned left into a narrow, overgrown park.

Though September had just begun, the smell of autumn was already in the air. I inhaled deeply. The crisp breeze carried the smoky aroma of early bonfires. I watched leaves swirl in the wind, slowly descending to the ground.

I couldn't help but feel as though I, too, was born and growing only to end up wasted and decaying on the earth...

The wind picked up, and raindrops began to strike the pavement. I pulled my black hoodie over my head and started to run. Though my house wasn't far, the deluge soaked my hoodie and shoulders by the time I arrived.

But stepping through the door didn't bring relief. Something felt off. My father, who was supposed to be home, was absent. My mother's room was empty.

And then, suddenly, an overwhelming sense of loss hit me—a force I hadn't anticipated. It was so intense that, for a moment, it felt like the breath had been stolen from my lungs.

It was as though I was plummeting into an abyss, unsure if I'd ever find a way out...