People smiled at me a lot when I was younger.
Teachers smiled when I answered questions before they finished asking them. Administrators smiled when my scores were mentioned during meetings. Guardians smiled when I stayed quiet and didn't cause problems.
The smiles were never warm.They were relieved.
I learned early which ones meant approval and which ones meant convenience. Most fell into the second category.
When I failed once—just once—the reaction wasn't anger. It wasn't disappointment either. It was distance. Conversations shortened. Check-ins stopped happening unless something was required.
I fixed the mistake.
Everything returned to normal.
That was how things worked.
Praise followed results. Attention followed usefulness. Silence followed everything else.
Love, as far as I could tell, was attention that didn't expire immediately.I had never seen a version of it that didn't need constant maintenance.
When other children cried, adults reacted. Noise demanded response.When I didn't, they assumed I was fine.
Quiet children were easy children.Easy children didn't need checking on.
No one ever asked me if I was happy.
The question wouldn't have helped anyway. Happiness sounded vague. Poorly defined. Like something people agreed on without needing to explain.
I lay back on the bed and stared at the ceiling. A thin crack ran from one corner toward the light fixture. I'd noticed it months ago and forgotten about it until now.
The silence didn't feel heavy.
I only noticed it because people usually complained about silence.
Sleep came easily.
It always had.
There was nothing in my life that asked me to stay awake.
—
Somewhere else, the reply was read.
There was a pause.
Then a sound—soft, brief, almost amused.
"So this is how you understand it," a voice murmured.
Another pause.
"Interesting."
The presence lingered for a moment longer than necessary.
"At last," it said quietly."My search can end."