Lune already knew how to react. What he didn't know—until recently—was when. Timing, he discovered, was what separated acceptable behavior from convincing behavior.
Wei cried once after school when his mother was late to pick him up. The tears came suddenly, panicked and loud. Other children stared. Teachers hurried over.
Lune watched closely.
Immediate comfort would look rehearsed. Delayed comfort would look cold.
He waited. Three seconds.
Then he stepped closer. "She'll come," he said quietly. "She always does."
Wei looked up, startled. His crying slowed. The teacher glanced at Lune approvingly.
"Well said," she murmured.
Lune noted it.
He began experimenting with delay.
When someone fell, he waited a breath before reacting. When someone laughed, he joined after the second beat, not the first. When bad news arrived, he lowered his gaze before offering sympathy.
People responded better to this version of him. Teachers began describing him differently.
"So thoughtful."
"So aware."
"So emotionally mature."
The word mature appeared frequently now.
During group work, Lune waited for others to speak before contributing. When disagreements arose, he intervened softly, offering compromise.
"I think both ideas could work," he said once.
The teacher nodded approvingly. "That's very mature of you, Lune."
Maturity, he realized, was emotional timing framed as virtue.
At home, the same rule applied.
When his mother looked tired, Lune waited until she sat down before asking questions. When his father came home frustrated, Lune gave him space first, then offered quiet company.
They responded with affection instead of fear.
One evening, his mother hugged him without hesitation. "You're so perceptive," she said. "You always know when to say the right thing."
Lune did not correct her.
In truth, he did not know. He calculated. Timing was not instinct. It was measurement.
He learned to watch breathing patterns, posture shifts, voice strain. He learned to wait until emotion peaked before responding—too early felt artificial, too late felt uncaring.
The sweet spot existed between.
At school, Ms. Han pulled his parents aside during a parent-teacher meeting.
"Lune has grown so much," she said warmly. "He's very emotionally aware for his age."
His parents beamed.
Lune stood beside them, hands folded, eyes lowered modestly.
He felt nothing.
But he understood something crucial.
Once you mastered timing, you no longer had to fake emotion. You only had to arrive at the correct moment. And if you could do that consistently, people would stop watching you for mistakes—and start using you as an example.
Which was exactly where Lune wanted to be.