The separation happened quietly.
There were no arguments, no slammed doors, no declarations of disappointment. Lune's parents did not withdraw from him physically. They were still present—still attentive, still kind.
They simply became irrelevant.
Lune noticed it when his mother asked about his day and he answered correctly, then realized the exchange had no effect on him at all. Not comfort. Not irritation. Not connection.
It was procedural.
His parents continued to worry about practicalities—applications, schedules, health. They offered advice he no longer needed, reassurance he did not require. Lune accepted it politely, the way one accepted instructions for a system already mastered.
He began spending more time outside the house. Not rebelliously. Efficiently. The house had become a space for maintenance rather than engagement.
At dinner, conversation flowed around him. His parents discussed work, relatives, plans. Lune contributed when necessary, adding remarks that stabilized tone and closed loops.
"You're quiet tonight," his mother said once, concerned.
"I'm fine," Lune replied.
She smiled, relieved.
The reassurance worked, even now.
That was the strange part. His parents had done everything right. They had adapted, structured, protected. They had given him the tools to function flawlessly.
And now that he did, there was nothing left between them that mattered.
Lune did not resent them for this. Resentment implied attachment. What he felt was distance—clean, uncharged.
He realized that he no longer measured his choices against their expectations. He did not seek their approval, nor did he fear their disappointment. Their opinions had become data points, nothing more.
At school, a counselor suggested a meeting to discuss "transition stress." Lune agreed, listened, responded appropriately.
At home, his mother asked if he wanted her help preparing for interviews.
"I've got it," he said gently.
She hesitated, then nodded. "Okay."
The moment passed.
Later that evening, Lune watched his parents from the doorway as they sat together on the couch, close and familiar, a shared history he did not need to access. He felt no pull to join them.
They were complete without him. And he was complete without them. The realization landed without sadness.
He returned to his room and closed the door, not as an act of separation, but of preference. The quiet inside was easier to manage alone.
Independence, he understood, was not about freedom from rules.
It was freedom from reference.
His parents had been his frame once—the external check against which he calibrated. Now the calibration happened internally, instant and final.
He did not miss them.
He did not anticipate missing them.
As he sat at his desk, reviewing schedules and plans that belonged entirely to him, Lune acknowledged the distance with calm acceptance.
Attachment had faded, and nothing had replaced it. There was no ache where it had been.
Only space.
And in that space, Lune felt nothing at all—no regret, no relief, no desire to turn back.
Just the steady certainty that whatever came next would not require them.
And that he did not care.