After the interview aired, people began to treat Lune differently.
Not with suspicion—never that—but with a gentle, unquestioning confidence, as if his presence itself implied order. Teachers smiled when they saw him in the hallway. Administrators nodded, satisfied, as though he represented something they could point to and say this is working.
"You handled yourself beautifully," the principal told him days later. "We've had very positive feedback."
Positive feedback meant reinforcement. Reinforcement meant repetition.
The success loop tightened around him almost invisibly.
At school, he was asked to help host events, guide visitors, speak on panels about student well-being. Each request came framed as an honor. Each acceptance increased his visibility—and paradoxically, his protection.
People didn't scrutinize what they were proud of.
Lune noticed how easily praise replaced oversight. Where adults once watched him carefully for missteps, they now assumed competence. Where they once asked why, they now said of course.
He leaned into it.
He refined his tone further, making it warmer without becoming intimate. He practiced humility in public, downplaying his own role while subtly guiding conversations back to himself. He learned to thank people in ways that made them feel generous rather than thanked.
At home, the change was even more pronounced.
His parents stopped discussing doctors altogether. The word diagnosis vanished from conversation. His mother told relatives how "expressive" he was now. His father spoke of him with quiet pride, using words like balanced and grounded.
"You've really come into yourself," his mother said one evening, brushing his hair back affectionately. "I'm so glad."
Gladness replaced fear. Lune understood the significance of that shift.
The mask—once a necessity—had become a source of reward.
He felt the feedback loop close cleanly:
Performance produced approval.
Approval reduced scrutiny.
Reduced scrutiny increased freedom.
Freedom was the goal.
He stopped questioning whether the emptiness he felt mattered. The world was responding exactly as it should. Any internal discomfort was irrelevant if the external system functioned flawlessly.
At drama club, Mr. Luo began giving him more prominent roles. "You carry the room," he said. "People listen when you speak."
Lune accepted the responsibility without hesitation. On stage, the applause came faster now, louder, more certain. He no longer needed to adjust mid-performance; he knew instinctively what would land.
Each success reinforced the structure he had built. Each nod, each smile, each congratulatory hand on his shoulder told him the same thing:
This is correct.
One afternoon, walking home alone, Lune paused at a crosswalk and watched his reflection in a darkened shop window. The boy staring back looked composed, self-possessed, real.
The idea that this might be temporary no longer occurred to him.
There was no incentive to dismantle what worked. He stepped off the curb as the light changed, moving forward with calm assurance.
He had chosen this version of himself.
And now, with the world rewarding him for it, he committed fully—without hesitation, without regret—to becoming exactly what they believed he already was.