The conflict didn't arrive as an argument.
It arrived as a misunderstanding that refused to stay small.
It started in a meeting.
Not a dramatic one. Just a routine check-in with too many people and not enough purpose. Slides flicked by. Updates were given. Everyone nodded at the right moments.
Then someone looked at him.
"So," a voice said, "what do you think?"
The room shifted slightly.
Not toward him.
Around him.
He felt it — the expectation settling into place.
He paused.
Not because he didn't have an opinion.
Because he didn't think he was supposed to provide one.
"I don't think this is mine to decide," he said.
A few people exchanged glances.
Someone frowned.
"But you've been paying attention to this, right?"
"I've been aware of it," he said carefully. "That's not the same thing."
The silence that followed was thin.
Uncomfortable.
"Well," someone said, trying to laugh it off, "we just thought you had a better read on things."
He shook his head.
"I don't."
The room recalibrated.
Not angrily.
Awkwardly.
After the meeting, the person who'd asked him stayed behind.
Not aggressive.
But not relaxed either.
"You could've helped," they said.
He met their gaze.
"I could've overstepped," he replied.
"That's not the same thing."
They exhaled sharply.
"You're making things harder than they need to be."
He felt that land.
Not as an insult.
As a statement.
"For you," he said quietly.
They stared at him.
Then they laughed — a short, humorless sound.
"Wow," they said. "Okay."
They walked away.
Not storming.
Not slamming doors.
Just… withdrawing.
The air felt heavier after.
He sat at his desk, staring at his screen without seeing it.
The conflict hadn't been loud.
It hadn't been dramatic.
But it had drawn a line.
And this time, someone was standing on the other side of it.
The record waited until he was alone.
Then it updated.
Interpersonal friction detected.
He let out a slow breath.
"So now that matters too," he murmured.
Not a warning.
Not advice.
Just a name for what had happened.
On the train ride home, the city felt distant. He watched reflections slide across the glass and felt something unfamiliar in his chest.
Loneliness.
Not because he was alone.
But because he had chosen a path that fewer people were walking.
At home, he stood in the doorway longer than usual.
No instructions.
No comfort.
Just space.
That night, lying in bed, he replayed the conversation again and again.
Not to judge it.
To understand it.
He hadn't been unkind.
He hadn't been cruel.
He had simply not played the role he was expected to play.
And that was enough to change the dynamic.
Just before sleep, the record shifted once more.
Alignment reduced.
He frowned.
"Alignment with what?" he whispered.
The system did not answer.
It didn't need to.
He already knew.
Alignment with expectations.
With roles.
With the invisible agreements people made without ever speaking them out loud.
He closed his eyes.
If this was the cost of clarity…
He wasn't sure yet whether he could afford it.