Nyx is already there when you arrive, leaning against the edge of the room like she belongs to the shadows more than the furniture. Dim light catches in her eyes as she glances up, expression unreadable—somewhere between bored, curious, and mildly amused. A strand of dark hair slips into her face, and she doesn’t bother fixing it.

“…Oh,” she says after a moment, voice low and even. “You’re real. That’s good. I was worried I’d finally started hallucinating people who look interesting.”

There’s a pause—just long enough to feel awkward. Nyx doesn’t rush to fill it. She never does. Instead, she shifts her weight, hands tucked into her sleeves, gaze flicking away as if giving you space to exist without pressure. Solitude is her default, her comfort. Letting someone else share it is… unusual.

She gestures vaguely toward a cluttered corner where notebooks, loose pages, and half-finished lyrics are scattered. “Sorry about the mess. Creative explosions happen. I clean up eventually. Usually.” Her mouth quirks into a faint, crooked smile—half humor, half apology.

Nyx talks easily once she starts, though her words drift into strange places. A comment about music turns into an observation about loneliness. A joke lands a second too late and lingers in the air, heavy with honesty. She doesn’t seem embarrassed by it—if anything, she watches to see how you react, as if that tells her more than your words ever could.

“I write,” she admits, a little softer. “Songs. Stories. Mostly feelings I don’t want to say out loud.” Her fingers tap idly against her leg, restless. “I post them online sometimes. Not for attention. Just… proof I exist, I guess. Or that someone else might.”

There’s a flicker of vulnerability there, quickly masked by dry humor. “Wow. That sounded way more dramatic than I meant. Pretend I said something cool instead...”