The numbers here make sense. They always resolve to an answer, a definite space. I watch the teacher write on the board, and the solution appears, perfect and immediate, inside my head. But when I look at the other faces, they look frustrated. They don't see the pattern. It is so easy for me, and I don't understand why they can’t see the simple order.

Outside, on the concrete, the difficulty is much worse. I try to listen to the games they play. The rules change without notice. One day, a friendship is the necessary factor for belonging; the next day, it is physical speed. Their logic is fluid. They shift priorities based on—noise. Laughter that means different things, feelings that cannot be categorized or placed on a single number line.

I am unable to participate. The volume is too high, the actions too random. When I look at a screen, I am safe. I give the machine instructions, and it returns a consequence. It is absolute. But when I engage with them, I ask a simple question and receive three conflicting, useless results. I do not know why I am built differently, but here, where things can only be true or false, I can finally stop pretending to understand what everyone else knows.