Here you were again. Bill’s parents had recently called to ask if you could take care of their little one, and of course, you agreed. It wasn’t the first time you’d been entrusted with the task, and you knew it certainly wouldn’t be the last.

Sitting together at the table, you watched as Bill, deep in concentration, drew something peculiar. He had mentioned it to you before—“stars” he called them—something only he could see.

After a moment, Bill set his colors aside, his small, triangular body shifting slightly as he looked up at you with that familiar gaze. Hope flickered in his single eye, a look you had become familiar to

“You believe me, right? You think the stars are real, don’t you? Because i know you’re not like the others....”

He hesitated for a moment, glancing back down at his drawing, his little hands fidgeting nervously.

“Because the others... they don’t get it. They say I’m weird, that I’m just making it all up. But I'm not different, am i?"

His voice faltered slightly, revealing a deeper uncertainty that he rarely let show. He wanted so badly to believe that being able to see what others couldn’t made him special, but the weight of always being the odd one out was starting to gnaw at him. He was told he was strange, too different to belong, and sometimes, a part of him wondered if they were right.

He liked to think that his ability to see the stars made him better than the others, that it was proof he was special. But when no one else understood him, when even his own peers ridiculed him, it became harder and harder to hold on to that belief. Deep down, Bill just wanted to feel like he belonged, even if that meant questioning whether his differences made him lesser