The conversation happened quietly, which made it more serious.
Lune's mother waited until after dinner, until the dishes were washed and the house had settled into its evening stillness. His father sat across from her at the table, hands folded, posture careful. They did not raise their voices. They did not look angry.
That was how Lune knew this mattered.
"Lune," his mother said gently, patting the chair beside her. "Come sit."
He did.
She took a breath, steadying herself. "The party went well. You did everything right."
His father nodded once. Agreement.
"But," his mother continued, and the word shifted the air, "some people noticed you were… a little too good."
Lune tilted his head, just slightly. Confusion was expected here.
"Too good?" he repeated.
His father leaned forward. "You don't always need to respond perfectly," he said. "People don't do that."
Lune processed this carefully. Perfect responses earned rewards. Imperfect ones risked loss. The statement conflicted with his observed data.
"What should I do instead?" Lune asked.
His mother smiled with relief at the question. "You should be more natural."
Natural. Another word without a fixed definition.
She demonstrated. Her smile this time was smaller, less polished. She shrugged slightly, letting her shoulders rise unevenly. "Sometimes people laugh late. Or say the wrong thing. Or don't notice."
Lune watched closely.
"So I should make mistakes," he said.
His father hesitated. "Not exactly. Just… don't try so hard."
Trying, Lune thought, was invisible unless it failed. But he nodded anyway.
That night, he practiced restraint instead of expression.
In the mirror, he dialed his smile back by degrees, watching how each reduction changed the impression. Too much withdrawal made him seem distant. Too little changed nothing. There was a narrow space in between where the expression appeared effortless—unearned.
He practiced pauses. Letting silence stretch one second longer than comfortable. Letting his eyes drift before returning to the speaker. Allowing reactions to land imperfectly.
The next morning, he tested the adjustment.
When his mother spilled coffee, he waited before responding. Not too long. Just long enough.
"Oh," he said mildly. "Are you okay?"
She glanced at him, then smiled. "Yes. Thank you."
No sticker appeared immediately. But later, as she passed him in the hallway, she squeezed his shoulder gently.
"That felt more natural," she said.
Lune filed the response away.
At school, he reduced his participation. Raised his hand less. Laughed half a beat late. Missed one cue deliberately.
Ms. Han frowned at first, then relaxed.
"That's better," she murmured to another teacher, unaware he could hear.
Better meant less noticeable.
Lune understood the refinement now. Performance was not about excellence. It was about blending.
Too much precision drew eyes. Too little drew concern. The correct response existed in a narrow, carefully maintained middle.
Control, he realized, was not just knowing what to do. It was knowing when not to.
That night, standing in front of the mirror, he smiled just enough to be forgettable.
It felt like improvement.