Lune began keeping a log without writing anything down.
It happened gradually, without intention. A habit formed from repetition. From watching. From noticing that people behaved in patterns even when they believed themselves spontaneous.
He cataloged them mentally, arranging details the way his father arranged tools in the garage—by function, not sentiment.
Wei, for example:
—Laughs when nervous.
—Avoids eye contact when lying.
—Becomes loyal when defended publicly.
—Calms when spoken to quietly, not quickly.
Ms. Han:
—Responds positively to politeness framed as maturity.
—Dislikes confrontation but tolerates quiet correction.
—Relaxes when praised indirectly.
His mother:
—Voice rises when anxious.
—Touches her throat when overwhelmed.
—Responds best to reassurance phrased as certainty.
His father:
—Silence indicates irritation, not calm.
—Prefers solutions to sympathy.
—Relaxes when useful.
Lune updated the log constantly, adding variables, adjusting predictions when results deviated. He tested small changes—altering tone, shifting timing, removing eye contact—to see how outcomes changed.
The accuracy rate was high.
One afternoon, Wei approached him during recess, shoulders slumped, footsteps dragging slightly more than usual.
Lune noted the signs. Frustration. Embarrassment.
"What's wrong?" Lune asked, keeping his voice level.
"I failed the spelling test," Wei muttered.
Lune waited one second. Then: "That happens sometimes."
Wei nodded, relieved. "Yeah."
"If you want, I can help you study," Lune added.
Wei's face brightened. Gratitude replaced frustration exactly as predicted.
Lune felt something then—not emotion, but satisfaction.
Not pride. Not happiness.
Certainty.
He enjoyed knowing what would happen before it did. He enjoyed that people followed patterns even when they thought they were being unpredictable. The world felt orderly when viewed correctly.
At home, he refined the system further.
If he offered to help with chores before being asked, his father relaxed. If he waited until after dinner, his mother accepted without guilt. If he remained silent during his parents' quiet disagreements, they argued less.
When relatives visited, Lune adjusted accordingly. Older relatives preferred respect and restraint. Younger ones preferred engagement and humor.
No one noticed the calculation.
Adults called it empathy.
At night, Lune lay in bed and replayed interactions the way others replayed dreams. He ran simulations forward: If I say this, they will respond like that. If I wait, this outcome improves.
The predictability soothed him.
People often spoke about chaos, about how no one could truly understand others. Lune disagreed. They simply did not watch closely enough.
The only time the log failed was when emotion overwhelmed logic—panic, grief, rage. In those moments, patterns collapsed briefly. But even then, reactions followed predictable arcs once the peak passed.
Lune learned to wait for that.
One evening, his mother cried quietly in the kitchen after a phone call. Lune stayed in the doorway, observing.
She wiped her eyes. Her breathing slowed. Only then did he approach.
"Do you want tea?" he asked.
She looked up, startled, then smiled weakly. "That would be nice."
The outcome matched the prediction exactly.
As she sipped the tea, her hand shaking slightly, Lune stood nearby and felt the familiar calm settle over him. The world made sense when he watched it.
And for the first time, he understood that watching wasn't just something he did. It was something he enjoyed.