The email arrived on a Wednesday afternoon.
It was brief, enthusiastic, and addressed to the principal. A local news outlet was doing a feature on "exceptional students" in the district, highlighting emotional intelligence, leadership, and resilience.
Lune's name was listed first.
The principal called him into the office the next day. The room was bright with late-morning sun, the blinds half-open. A small camera sat on the desk beside a notebook and a branded microphone.
"This is a great opportunity," the principal said, smiling broadly. "They'd like to interview you. Just a few questions. Very casual."
Casual was never accurate.
Lune nodded, already assessing the setup. Camera angle. Lighting. The way the microphone was positioned slightly too close, meant to capture intimacy.
The interviewer arrived with practiced warmth, shaking Lune's hand and crouching slightly to meet his eye line.
"So," she said, adjusting the camera, "you've been described as very emotionally mature for your age."
Lune smiled. The middle version.
"I try my best," he said.
The questions were predictable.
How do you handle stress?
What advice would you give other students?
Who inspires you?
Lune answered smoothly, selecting phrases he knew would translate well on screen. He spoke about patience. About listening. About understanding others' feelings. He referenced teachers, parents, community.
The interviewer nodded enthusiastically, clearly pleased.
Behind the camera, the principal watched with visible pride.
Lune noticed something curious as the interview continued.
The presence of the camera did not unsettle him.
If anything, it clarified things.
He could feel the lens the way he felt an audience—an abstract attention that responded to shape, timing, and tone. He adjusted instinctively, leaning into pauses, softening certain words, letting sincerity appear without ever needing to access it.
The camera loved him.
"Can we do that answer one more time?" the interviewer asked. "It was great—just a bit more heart."
Lune nodded and repeated the answer with minor adjustments. Slower. Warmer. More emphasis on gratitude.
The interviewer beamed. "Perfect."
When it was over, the principal clapped him lightly on the shoulder. "You were a natural," he said. "Absolutely natural."
Natural again.
That evening, his parents watched the segment on their phones, huddled together on the couch. His mother covered her mouth, eyes shining.
"That's our son," she whispered.
His father nodded, pride unguarded. "You spoke beautifully."
Lune sat across from them, calm and detached, watching their reactions instead of the screen.
He noticed how easily the camera had fit into his existing framework. How the performance required no new skills—only a broader audience.
The fatigue he had felt earlier receded slightly, replaced by something steadier.
Clarity.
Cameras, he realized, were honest in their own way. They did not ask for truth. They asked for presence. For coherence. For something that could be consumed.
He could provide that.
As his parents replayed the clip again, Lune understood something important.
The emptiness had not disappeared.
But standing in front of the camera, shaping himself into something watchable, had felt… correct.
Not fulfilling. But precise.
And precision, he was learning, was the closest thing to relief he knew how to reach.