The rule formed quietly.
There was no moment of declaration, no dramatic realization. It emerged the way patterns always did for Lune—through repetition, through confirmation, through the steady accumulation of evidence.
Truth was unnecessary.
He tested the idea carefully, as he always did.
At home, his mother asked, "Did you have a good day?"
"Yes," Lune said.
It was not true. It was also not false in any meaningful way. The answer satisfied her. That was its purpose.
At school, a teacher asked him how he felt about a group assignment.
"It's fine," he replied.
No one pressed further.
He began to notice how rarely truth was required. How often it complicated things. How frequently it made people uncomfortable, defensive, afraid.
Comfort, on the other hand, closed conversations.
Lune observed adults closely now, not just for reaction, but for motivation. His parents avoided difficult topics with practiced ease. Teachers redirected uncomfortable questions without guilt. Doctors framed uncertainty as progress.
No one demanded honesty.
They demanded stability.
One evening, his father spoke about work frustrations at the dinner table, voice tight with irritation.
"That sounds hard," Lune said at the correct moment.
His father nodded, visibly relieved. The conversation ended there.
Lune had no idea whether it was hard. He did not need to. The statement served its function.
Later, alone in his room, Lune stood in front of the mirror—not to practice expressions, but to observe himself without them.
His face at rest looked empty. Not cold. Just unmarked.
He considered the implications.
If truth was unnecessary, then feeling was optional. If feeling was optional, then performance was enough.
Performance kept him safe. Performance earned him freedom. Performance made people trust him.
The internal rule finalized itself with a clarity that felt almost elegant:
Say only what is required.
Show only what is useful.
Never offer more.
This was not deception in the way adults warned against. It was efficiency.
Lune did not resent the world for requiring this. He did not feel wronged or misunderstood. He simply accepted the conditions as they were.
Survival, he realized, was not about being real.
It was about being convincing.
And he was very good at that.
As he lay down to sleep, the house quiet around him, Lune felt the familiar sense of order settle in his mind. Everything fit. Everything made sense.
Performance was not a mask he wore. It was the structure that allowed him to exist.
And as long as he followed the rule, no one would ever ask him for the truth he had no reason to give.