Friday, in a city in California, in an ordinary house. The sun filtered through the bedroom window, cutting softly across the room.
A boy with silver-blond hair slept quietly inside it. Light slipped through the gap in the curtains and illuminated his face.
His eyes trembled and slowly opened. Heterochromatic—one red, the other a bluish silver. Even in the moment of waking, his expression already carried fatigue.
It's Friday, I thought. Same routine. Same people. Same isolation.
I got up and walked to the window.
My mother was in the garden, tending to her red roses. She noticed me and turned slightly. As always, her expression shifted—subtle, uncertain.
I didn't blame her.
I'm not like my little brother. The "normal" one.
He moves through things naturally, as if the world was designed for him.
I don't...
I went to the bathroom and looked at myself in the mirror.
The same lifeless eyes stared back.
I smiled.
Not naturally—constructed.
I adjusted my expression the way people do when they are happy, aligning the face, the posture, the eyes. A practiced simulation.
It always works.
For people who didn't know me before I learned how to exist properly.
When I smile like that, my brain responds as if it were real. A controlled imitation of emotion that becomes functional.
I went downstairs already in my school uniform.
My father sat at the table reading a newspaper and eating breakfast. My brother was focused entirely on his pancakes.
My father's expression was neutral.
He is the only person I cannot fully read.
Sometimes I wonder if I inherited more of him than my mother.
My brother, however, is nothing like me.
He is normal.
Like my mother—warm, kind, and naturally expressive in ways I have to calculate.
I left the house with my brother.
My mother said goodbye to him first, holding him warmly. When she turned to me, the gesture was different. Hesitant. Measured.
Still… an embrace.
I accepted it.
The school bus arrived.
We boarded together. He joined his friends immediately, while I chose the seat furthest away, by the window.
Always the window.
School arrived too quickly.
I ran toward the classroom, worried about being late. When I entered, the atmosphere shifted.
Eyes turned toward me.
Not curiosity. Not recognition.
Evaluation...
As if they were trying to decide what I was.
Safe… or not.
Human… or something pretending to be one.
Professor Tony entered and began his lesson as usual. Sometimes he asked me questions. I answered them well. More than that, I asked better ones.
By the time I returned home, the day had already ended itself.
I ate dinner, took care of everything expected of me, said goodnight, and went to sleep.
But the next morning was different.
A holiday.
Still, my parents called me into the living room.
I sat down.
The silence felt intentional.
My father spoke first.
"We've decided something."
I waited.
"You're changing schools."
For a moment, I didn't respond.
A new school.
My mother watched me carefully, choosing each word before speaking.
"We think it's a chance for you," she said gently. "A fresh start. A more normal life."
Normal.
The word didn't belong to me.
My father continued.
"You've been distant for a long time. We just want you to have a chance to live differently."
I understood what they meant.
A version of life without this.
But I wasn't sure what this was supposed to be.
I didn't know yet that this would be the last day my life would stay the same.