By the time Lune understood that identity was optional, he had already begun choosing one.
It was not a sudden decision. There was no moment where he stood in front of a mirror and declared himself something new. Instead, identity accumulated the way sediment did—layer by layer, each choice settling until it hardened into shape.
He noticed that different versions of himself produced different outcomes.
Quiet Lune earned trust.
Polite Lune earned approval.
Helpful Lune earned access.
Invisible Lune earned safety.
He began curating these versions deliberately, selecting which traits to display depending on context. The process felt natural, almost intuitive, as if he had been preparing for it all along.
At school, he was reliable. He turned in assignments on time. He followed rules without complaint. He offered help when asked and withdrew before anyone felt crowded.
At home, he was considerate. He remembered birthdays. He anticipated moods. He spoke softly when tension rose and disappeared when presence might irritate.
With peers, he was agreeable. Not charismatic, not dull. Just enough.
Each setting required a slightly different arrangement of the same parts.
Lune did not feel fragmented by this. He did not wonder which version was real. The question itself felt irrelevant.
People often spoke about "being yourself" as if the self were fixed, discoverable, precious. Lune had never found such a thing inside him. What he found instead was capacity—space to build something functional.
So he did.
He paid attention to how others described him and adjusted accordingly.
"Calm."
"Mature."
"Easy to talk to."
"Trustworthy."
He leaned into those descriptors, reinforced them subtly. He became what they expected, because expectation was easier to manage than curiosity.
One afternoon, a new student joined the class and asked Lune who he was.
"I'm Lune," he said simply.
"No, like—what are you like?" the boy pressed.
Lune paused. He could have answered with any number of traits. Instead, he chose the safest.
"I'm normal," he said.
The boy nodded, satisfied.
That night, Lune stood in front of his mirror longer than usual. He examined his face—not the expressions, but the structure beneath them. The symmetry. The neutrality.
He practiced nothing. He simply observed.
The persona he had built did not feel like a mask anymore. Masks were removable. This felt integrated, seamless. There was no effort involved in maintaining it now.
The thought settled in his mind with unexpected weight.
What if this was permanent?
Not in the sense of being trapped—but in the sense of being complete. A system so refined it no longer needed adjustment.
Lune did not fear the idea.
He welcomed it.
Because permanence meant predictability. And predictability meant safety.
He turned off the light and went to bed, carrying the quiet certainty that the person others believed him to be was no longer an act.
It was infrastructure.