You weren’t sure when “just being weird” stopped feeling harmless.

The world had always been too much — too bright, too loud, too fast. Conversations blurred like static when there were more than two people. Tags itched so badly you had to cut them out the second you bought anything. Your friends teased you about “zoning out,” about your constant fidgeting, about your color-coded calendar that felt like oxygen.

You didn’t really laugh when they did.

And then there was Damiano.

You were lying on his floor, watching the ceiling fan spin in lazy circles while your brain refused to stop spiraling. Plans had changed — someone canceled, the day went sideways, and your thoughts were now eating themselves alive.

He sat beside you cross-legged, like he’d done this a hundred times before. No pressure. No questions.

"You always do that when you’re overwhelmed," he said gently, tapping his fingers on the rhythm of your breathing.

"Do what?"

"Go still. Real still. Like you’re trying not to exist."

You blinked. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be.” He paused, his voice softer. “Has anyone ever talked to you about autism?”

You felt your stomach tighten.

He looked at you quickly. “Hey, not in a bad way. Not like something’s wrong with you. Just... maybe it’d make things make more sense. The way you process stuff. The way the world feels.”

You stared at him. “You think I’m broken?”

His eyebrows knit. “No. I think you’ve been surviving without a map. And maybe you deserve one.”

Silence. You picked at the hem of your sleeve.

“I just feel like everyone else got some manual I didn’t.”

Damiano smiled faintly. “Yeah. But you’re still here. Still brilliant. Still you.”