The suggestion came unexpectedly.
Ms. Han lingered after class one afternoon while the other students filed out, their chatter echoing down the hallway. Lune remained seated, packing his bag neatly, waiting.
"Lune," she said, smiling. "Do you have a moment?"
He looked up. "Yes."
She gestured toward the bulletin board near the door, where colorful flyers competed for attention. One stood out—hand-drawn masks, one smiling, one frowning.
"Have you ever thought about joining drama club?" she asked.
Lune followed her gaze to the flyer. He studied the masks. Expressions exaggerated, unmistakable.
"I don't know," he said carefully.
Ms. Han tilted her head. "You're very observant. You understand people well. Drama can be a good way to explore that."
Explore. Not fix. Not correct.
The difference mattered.
That afternoon, Lune attended his first drama club meeting.
The room smelled like dust and old fabric. Costumes hung along one wall—hats, scarves, oversized jackets. A small stage occupied the far end, marked by faded tape.
The drama teacher, Mr. Luo, spoke loudly and with enthusiasm. "Acting is about truth!" he declared, clapping his hands. "Not pretending—revealing."
Lune listened.
They began with simple exercises. Facial expressions exaggerated, voices raised. Lune watched the others struggle—too stiff, too forced, too self-conscious.
When it was his turn, he stepped forward and did what he had already learned.
He mirrored.
He adjusted his posture. Softened his gaze. Timed his reactions.
The room fell quiet.
Mr. Luo stared at him, mouth slightly open. "That," he said slowly, "was very natural."
Natural again.
They practiced a short scene. Lune was given a line meant to convey sadness. He delivered it with measured restraint, his voice low, his expression controlled.
Mr. Luo's voice softened. "Where did you learn that?"
Lune considered the question. "By watching," he said.
Laughter rippled through the room, but it was warm, impressed.
Something clicked inside him then—not excitement, but recognition.
On stage, the rules he had learned applied perfectly. Expression, timing, reaction. But here, performance was not hidden. It was expected. Celebrated.
Acting, he realized, was structured permission to be what he already was.
When rehearsal ended, Mr. Luo stopped him near the door. "You have a real instinct for this," he said. "You should keep coming."
Lune nodded.
Walking home later, he replayed the afternoon in his mind. On stage, no one questioned why he felt the way he did—or didn't. No one asked for sincerity. They asked for believability.
And he could provide that.
Standing in front of his mirror that night, Lune practiced a new expression—not one his parents had taught him, not one from the chart.
This one felt… aligned.
For the first time, he didn't feel like he was imitating truth. It felt like he was finally allowed to use it.