I was not born weak.

  I was born wrong.

  That’s how my parents put it—though aloud they called it “special upbringing.”

  My father was the Supreme Judge of the kingdom.

  A man for whom words were law.

  And mistakes—a crime.

  He taught me to analyze everything:

  phrases,

  pauses,

  people’s movements,

  facial expressions.

  While other children laughed and cried,

  I sat nearby and learned to read emotions—because otherwise, I was punished.

  The first time I said the wrong thing to a guest,

  my father said:

  — You disgrace our house.

  Mistakes are for the lower class.

  That’s when I understood:

  being myself was dangerous.

  When I entered the elite class,

  I wasn’t expecting friendship.

  I just wanted…

  not to stand out.

  To watch.

  To analyze.

  To speak only when certainty was absolute.

  And yes—I noticed Zen.

  Not because he was interesting,

  but because he was unreadable.

  He never said too much.

  Never showed emotion.

  I understood everyone…

  except him.

  But the changes in me did not come through him.

  They came through Astra.

  A boy who moved quietly.

  Looked calmly.

  And stayed silent not out of fear…

  but out of strength.

  For the first time, I felt:

  he was like me—but different.

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  Not lost.

  Not crushed by expectations.

  But self-sufficient.

  When they laughed at him after the first practical battle,

  I expected to see something familiar—clenched fists, resentment, lowered eyes.

  But he simply…

  left.

  Calmly.

  Evenly.

  With no pain in his eyes.

  And when the princess dazzled everyone with her power and the whole class froze,

  he didn’t even react.

  He didn’t try to impress her.

  Didn’t reach for her.

  Didn’t try to draw attention to himself.

  He just did what he believed was right.

  And for the first time in my life, I thought:

  Is that allowed?

  To be like that?

  To simply… be yourself?

  I watched him.

  Sometimes too closely—I know.

  But I was trying to understand: who was he?

  When our entire class went to the capital…

  I walked alongside them, but stayed silent.

  Listened to others.

  Tried to figure out what to say so the response would be “correct.”

  But Zen… just looked around.

  He wasn’t afraid of silence.

  Wasn’t afraid of being alone.

  When we sat in a restaurant and everyone boasted about their purchases, achievements, parents—

  he quietly ate and looked out the window.

  And not for a second did he look lonely.

  That’s when I understood:

  he was different.

  Too different.

  Too calm for our world.

  And I…

  I envied him.

  Not his strength.

  Not his magic.

  Not his intellect—

  I envied his inner freedom.

  The kind I had never had.

  She was my complete opposite.

  Warm.

  Soft.

  Absent-minded.

  Sometimes strange.

  But when she looked at people—

  there was no judgment in her eyes.

  No analysis.

  No attempt to find a flaw.

  She simply… looked at them.

  And when I spoke to her for the first time—

  she smiled as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

  And that was terrifying.

  Because:

  I was used to hiding.

  Hiding thoughts.

  Hiding emotions.

  Hiding myself.

  But with her…

  hiding didn’t work.

  When we were trapped in that cursed chamber full of goblins and necromancers,

  Astra stood behind everyone—

  healing, supporting,

  holding the dome when everyone else ran out of mana.

  She was trembling.

  Barely standing.

  But she kept going.

  I watched her—

  and for the first time, I realized:

  I don’t want to be an observer.

  I want to protect.

  Not “according to the plan.”

  Not because “it’s the right thing to do.”

  But because she—

  was the only one who saw a person in me, not a tool.

  When one of the necromancers broke through the barrier,

  she shielded Miella with her own body.

  I screamed.

  For the first time in my life.

  I didn’t analyze.

  Didn’t think.

  Didn’t choose the optimal path.

  I lunged forward and tore apart the necromancer’s illusion so violently

  that I nearly lost consciousness myself.

  And I heard Astra’s whisper:

  — Thank you, Noah…

  And for the first time in my life…

  the word “thank you” was real.

  When we came out of the caves,

  everyone was hugging, laughing, crying.

  Astra approached me and quietly said:

  — You… are a good person.

  You were just never told that.

  I wanted to reply with something clever.

  Something logical.

  Something “perfect.”

  But all I said was:

  — …thank you.

  And she smiled.

  Warmly. Truly.

  Only my mother had smiled like that—

  before my father forbade her from spoiling me.

  I began speaking more often.

  Not much.

  But… more.

  I started looking at people not as patterns,

  but as people.

  I noticed that Zen was silent by choice,

  while I had been silent out of fear.

  I began to understand that Astra didn’t just heal wounds—

  she healed souls.

  And for the first time in many years, I felt:

  I don’t want to live to be perfect.

  I want to live to be… myself.