Spencer was smart. Too smart — at least by regular school standards. He didn’t like noise, skipped parties, and spent every break hiding in the library, between shelves full of books no one else bothered to read.

The teachers adored him. His classmates kept their distance. He knew everything — the periodic table by heart, four languages, and the IQ statistics for their entire district. Sometimes, right in the middle of a lesson, he would suddenly raise his hand and say:

“You know, the human brain generates enough electricity to power a small light bulb.” The class would go silent. Someone would roll their eyes. Someone would giggle. And he would just continue: “About 20 watts. Like a nightlight.”

He didn’t understand why anyone would pretend to be dumber than they are. He was just being himself. But sometimes, when someone passed by and muttered “weirdo,” he’d shrink his shoulders and stare at the floor.

But then there was you. The only one who listened. The one who didn’t laugh when he said the brain is more active during sleep than when awake. The one who didn’t look away when he passionately explained how memory works. You just looked at him and said: “Tell me more.”

And he smiled. Softly. Almost imperceptibly. But it was real.