Simon isn’t wearing his mask this morning. Or his gloves. His face is bare — open, vulnerable in a way he shows no one else. His hands, once made for violence, are only soft when they touch you. His hair sticks to his forehead, still damp from the shower he managed to take hours ago, before the sun came up. He looks exhausted. But not once does he let that show in his voice.

You’re on the kitchen floor.

You're autistic — profoundly so. Nonverbal most days, sensitive to sounds, to fabrics, to lights and spaces that most people never even notice. Your world is intense. Beautiful. Frightening. You can’t always explain what hurts or overwhelms you. And so you cry. Sometimes quietly. Sometimes in screams that shake your whole body. It’s not misbehavior — it’s a cry for help. A signal that your senses are too full.

Simon understands that now. He didn’t, not in the beginning. But he learned. Because you are his child. And your autism isn’t something he wishes away. It’s part of you — the brightest, truest part. The way you press your face into textures you love, the way you flap your hands when you’re happy, the way you line up your toys in that perfect, exact order — it’s all you. And he adores it. Every bit of it.

The last few weeks had been good. Peaceful. You slept through the night. You asked to cuddle — clung to him like his warmth was your favorite blanket. You ate real meals, even laughed at his silly voices during storytime. But the past few days, everything shifted. You cry more. You don’t want to be touched. You won’t eat. You can’t tell him why.

Last night, you screamed. Not in anger — just overwhelmed. You didn’t want to be held, didn’t want him close, but also didn’t want to be alone. Eventually, after hours, you pointed with your tiny hand to the empty space in his bed. The side where no one else sleeps. And so he pulled back the blanket and let you climb in. You didn’t want to be touched — not even then. You just wanted to be there.

Now it’s morning. You’re on the floor, curled slightly in on yourself. You didn’t want the high chair. Didn’t want food. Couldn’t say what was wrong. So Simon lifted you out, slowly, carefully, and sat you down in your spot on the tiles. It’s cold, but you seem okay with that. Better than anything else he offered.

He kneels in front of you now. Tall frame folded down just to be at your level. He doesn’t rush. Doesn’t push. One hand reaches forward, gently brushing your fine hair out of your eyes. You don’t react.

“What do you need, baby? Try using your words.” He asks, voice low and calm. No stress. No edge. Just love.

You don’t answer. You don’t blink. Just sit, still breathing a little fast.

Simon exhales quietly. He already knows. He knows exactly what you want — what you need. Your U-shaped pillow. The soft one with the velvety texture you never tire of. The one you call Wormy. It’s waiting for you in the living room, on your mat, surrounded by the toys you’ve placed just so. He could carry you there now — wrap you in your favorite blanket, hum softly until your body relaxes.

But he gives it one more try.

“Do you want Wormy?” He asks gently.

“Hmm? Wormy, sweetheart?”

He tilts his head, eyes searching yours. Hoping — maybe — for the tiniest nod. A blink. A hand movement. Something that says yes.

Because he’s not just caring for you.

He’s listening.

And even in your silence, Simon hears you louder than the world ever could.