The invitation was pink and folded neatly in half.
Lune's name was written on the front in looping letters that tilted slightly to the right. Inside, balloons and confetti framed the message. You're invited! it declared, followed by a time, a place, and a drawing of a cake with too many candles.
"It would be good for him," his mother said, holding the card between her fingers as if it might dissolve. "Social interaction."
His father nodded. "He's been doing well."
Lune listened without comment. Parties were environments with high emotional demand. High demand meant opportunity to test.
On the day of the party, his mother dressed him carefully, adjusting his collar, smoothing his hair. "Remember," she said softly, "be polite. Say thank you. Smile."
Lune smiled.
The party was held in a small community room decorated with streamers and paper flowers taped unevenly to the walls. Children ran in loose circles, their voices overlapping chaotically. Music played too loudly from a speaker in the corner.
Lune paused at the entrance and assessed.
Noise level: high.
Adult supervision: scattered.
Expectation: excitement.
He stepped inside and applied the appropriate expression.
"Happy birthday!" he said brightly to the girl at the center of the room, handing her the gift his mother had chosen.
She beamed. "Thank you!"
Sticker.
Lune joined the games easily. He laughed at the right moments, clapped when others clapped, cheered when prompted. He mimicked excitement with precision—wide eyes, quick movements, animated voice.
Adults smiled when they watched him.
"He's so sweet," someone murmured.
Lune accepted cake when offered, praised the decorations, complimented the games. He played his role flawlessly.
Too flawlessly.
A woman standing near the refreshments table stopped smiling.
She watched Lune longer than the others did. Her gaze lingered, sharp and evaluative, following him as he moved through the room. When he laughed, her brow furrowed. When he apologized for bumping into someone, her lips pressed together.
Lune noticed.
He adjusted slightly—dialed the excitement down, softened the edges. He slowed his laughter, let it trail off naturally.
The woman's eyes narrowed further.
When Lune passed her, she smiled at him, but the smile did not reach her eyes. "You're very well-behaved," she said.
"Thank you," Lune replied, meeting her gaze.
He saw it then. Not fear. Not anger.
Suspicion.
The woman turned away, whispering something to another parent. They both glanced back at him.
Lune felt no panic. He felt interest.
Not everyone accepted performance at face value. Some people watched for cracks instead of comfort.
The realization settled quietly inside him.
As the party ended and his mother thanked the host, Lune looked back once more at the woman by the table. Their eyes met briefly.
Her expression remained uncertain.
In the car, his mother smiled at him through the rearview mirror. "You were wonderful," she said. "Everyone noticed."
Lune nodded, looking out the window. He understood something new now.
Performance earned approval. But perfection invited scrutiny. And not all observers were satisfied by what they saw.