Fefe learned early that life moved more smoothly when he didn't push against it.
He stood at the edge of the morning crowd, half a step behind everyone else, close enough to be counted present and far enough to avoid being chosen. When the supervisor's eyes swept the group, Fefe kept his gaze loose-not down, not challenging. He was very good at being overlooked.
Someone nearby dropped a crate. It cracked when it hit the ground, the sound sharp enough to make a few heads turn. The owner cursed under his breath and knelt, trying to gather what had spilled.
Fefe watched.
He had time. He always did. Helping would have taken only a moment-two hands, a little effort, a brief conversation he didn't want to have. He shifted his weight instead. Someone else stepped in. The problem resolved itself.
That was usually how things went.
People described Fefe as calm, easygoing, and sensible. He accepted those words because correcting them felt unnecessary. It wasn't that he disagreed. He simply didn't feel strongly enough to argue for a better description.
As the crowd thinned, Fefe moved with it, feeling the familiar relief of having to decide at all. No risk. No responsibility. No expectation.
Yet the thought lingered, as it often did-not guilt, not regret, but something closer to clarity.
I saw it, he admitted to himself.
I could've acted.
The idea didn't bother him. What bothered him was how natural the refusal felt, how easily it fit, like choosing the more comfortable path without having to look down.
Fefe adjusted his pace and followed the others forward, unaware that this quiet consistency-this unremarkable honesty-was already being counted.
Not judged.
Recognized.