The fatigue arrived without warning.
It was not physical. Lune slept well. He ate regularly. His routines were intact. Nothing in his schedule had changed, and yet something inside him had begun to thin, like fabric worn smooth by constant use.
He noticed it first in the pauses.
Moments that once felt efficient—choosing the right response, calibrating tone, deciding how much of himself to show—now required an extra fraction of attention. Not effort exactly, but awareness. As if the system he had built was asking to be checked more often.
At school, a classmate complained loudly about a group assignment. Lune nodded at the correct places, offered a measured reassurance, suggested a compromise.
It worked.
The classmate relaxed. The conflict dissolved.
Lune felt nothing afterward.
That was new.
Before, there had been a faint satisfaction in successful execution, a sense of alignment when outcomes matched prediction. Now, the success felt hollow, like completing a task whose purpose had already been forgotten.
At home, his mother spoke animatedly about her day, eyes bright, hands moving quickly. Lune listened, inserted affirmations where required.
"That must have been stressful."
"I'm glad it worked out."
She smiled, soothed.
When she left the room, Lune remained seated, staring at the table long after the conversation ended. He felt no irritation, no relief—only an absence that had no shape.
He tried to identify it.
It wasn't sadness. He knew what sadness looked like in others, and this wasn't it. It wasn't boredom either. Boredom carried restlessness, irritation, a desire for stimulation.
This was quieter.
He stood in front of the mirror that night, not to practice expressions, but to see if the reflection offered any clues. The face looking back at him was familiar, composed, functional.
He smiled experimentally.
The smile appeared correctly. His eyes softened at the corners. The expression would have convinced anyone.
Inside, there was nothing.
The realization did not alarm him, but it unsettled him. The system had always been enough before. Performance had been sufficient. Now, something about the repetition felt… incomplete.
He searched for a word and failed to find one.
At school the next day, a teacher praised him for his consistency.
"You're always so dependable, Lune," she said. "I don't know what we'd do without you."
He smiled. He nodded. He said thank you.
The words landed without effect.
Walking home, Lune slowed his pace, letting other students pass him. He watched them laugh, shove, argue, reconcile. Their emotions surged and collapsed visibly, messy and loud.
He wondered—not for the first time, but with greater insistence—what exactly they were getting from it.
There was something they seemed to access that he did not. Something that made the effort worthwhile.
Lune felt the absence again, sharper now, like a missing limb he had only just become aware of.
That night, lying in bed, he stared at the ceiling and tried to name what was missing.
Connection. Meaning. Desire. Purpose.
The words floated through his mind and drifted away, unanchored.
He closed his eyes.
Whatever it was, he knew only this:
Something essential was not there. And he had no idea what it was supposed to be.