They would swear there had been a warning, something small and sharp that should have cut through the comfort of routine. A sketch pinned to a fridge, a question brushed off with a joke, a bedroom door that became a border. Yet his undoing was patient, moving in the blind spots of busy lives, gathering weight in the corners no one cleaned. He mastered the art of passing: the right answers, the practiced smile, the casual “I’m good” that ended every conversation before it truly began.
When the world finally turned toward him, it wasn’t to understand but to absolve itself. They combed through old photos and report cards, hunting for a flaw to prove he’d always been other. The cruelest truth was simpler: he had started like anyone else, soft and unfinished, waiting for someone to notice the storm forming behind his quiet.
