I watched him as he flipped through the pages of Brave New World. There was a quiet confidence in the way he sat, in the way his eyes moved across each letter, each word on the page.

From the outside, everyone saw him as an introvert. They weren’t wrong, but I would smile whenever I heard their assumptions about him.

It was an act, a wall he built so others would leave him alone. Beneath it, he was lonely and cynical, yet also intelligent and deeply sensitive—a perfect contradiction, he was both the heads and tails of a coin—perfectly divided.

People thought he only saw the world in black and white, but really he saw every color. He absorbed everything—every word, every glance, every unspoken feeling—etching it all into his memory with a precision that most people never noticed.