Age 12
The first week of school felt different this time. Not louder or busier, just faster, like the world had hit play while I was still buffering.
The halls of Medford High smelled the same, chalk dust, cafeteria grease, and teenage ambition, but I wasn't the same kid who'd walked out of them in May. The summer had stretched me in ways I didn't notice until I tried to fit back into routine.
Sheldon was thrilled, of course. New notebooks, new equations, new chances to correct teachers who didn't ask for help. Georgie was only thrilled about the football season. Missy was thrilled about recess.
Me? I was observing.
My locker sat between two freshmen who spent more time talking about trucks and prom queens than classes. They talked in loops, the same sentences recycled with minor edits. It was like listening to static that learned English.
The first bell rang, and the tide of students moved as one. I followed quietly, notebook under my arm, eyes tracking patterns, who talked to whom, who avoided eye contact, who laughed a little too loud to hide nerves. Observation had become a comfort. You can't get lost in the noise if you're the one mapping it.
Classes hadn't changed much. Mrs. Ellis still taught math with the optimism of someone trying to raise sunflowers in a drought. I liked her; she cared more than most. When she handed back our first test, she smiled faintly.
"Stephen, you scored a hundred again."
I nodded. "The questions were kind."
She laughed softly. "You make it sound like they had feelings."
"Sometimes they do," I said.
At lunch, I sat alone by choice, the way I always did when I needed to think. The noise of the cafeteria faded to background hum as I flipped open my notebook. Inside were two things: half-worked equations and a letter from Paige, creased at the corners from how often I'd reread it.
I stared at the words until the letters blurred. She'd been writing less lately, shorter notes, longer pauses between them. Something was off.
A tray slammed onto the table across from me. Georgie grinned, mouth full of fries. "Dude, you gotta try these, they're half-price if you don't ask what's in 'em."
"I value my lifespan," I said.
He shrugged. "Suit yourself. You comin' to my game Friday?"
"Wouldn't miss it."
He smiled, one of those rare moments when being brothers didn't require translation, and then he was gone again, pulled back into his orbit of noise and motion.
When the final bell rang, I walked out into the bright heat and thought about variables, how some change whether you want them to or not. Paige's silence was one. My restlessness was another.
Friday evenings at East Texas Tech had become their own rhythm, the shuffle of papers, the murmur of students who still hadn't realized two of their classmates were twelve and nine. Dr. Sturgis stood at the board, scribbling equations with the intensity of a man fencing ghosts.
"Now," he said, "if coherence fails under external observation, what does that imply about reality itself?"
"Unstable," Sheldon answered without hesitation.
"Observable," I said at the same time.
He paused, smiled, and nodded to both of us. "Excellent! Two truths for the price of one."
That earned a small ripple of laughter from the older students, the kind that sounded half-admiring, half-unnerved.
I turned slightly. Paige sat three seats away, quiet. Too quiet. Her notebook was open, but she wasn't writing, just staring at the same equation Dr. Sturgis had written minutes ago.
Her usually neat hair was slightly unkempt, eyes shadowed from lack of sleep. I'd seen brilliance before, it burned bright, but this was something else. This was a slow burn running out of oxygen.
When class ended, Sheldon and Dr. Sturgis launched into another post-lecture debate about multiverse theory, voices rising and falling like excited birds. Paige packed her books in silence.
I caught up with her outside, the air still thick from late August heat.
"You okay?" I asked.
She blinked, like she hadn't expected the question. "Yeah. Just tired."
"Tired or done?"
That earned a small, surprised laugh, but it didn't reach her eyes. "Both, maybe."
We sat on the low stone wall near the parking lot, watching the sky dim to that soft Texas orange that always made the day feel longer than it was.
She finally said, "You ever feel like you're running out of space in your own head?"
I nodded slowly. "All the time. But that's why I slow down."
"Doesn't that scare you? Slowing down?"
"Yeah," I admitted. "But burning out scares me more."
She looked down at her notebook. "My parents keep saying I should be grateful for opportunities. But I think they mean obedient."
I didn't have an answer for that, not a good one, anyway. So I just said, "Sometimes people confuse achievement for happiness. They measure the wrong variable."
Paige smiled faintly, that familiar mix of sarcasm and sadness. "You always talk like a fortune cookie that reads philosophy."
I grinned. "And yet, you keep listening."
The parking lot lights flickered on. Dr. Sturgis waved from across the lot, reminding us to rest our neurons and hydrate. Sheldon was already halfway into another argument about relativity.
Paige stood, pulling her bag onto her shoulder. "You know, sometimes I wish I could just be normal. Not gifted, not promising, not a walking résumé."
I met her gaze. "You can't unlearn what you know. But you can decide what to do with it."
She didn't reply, just gave a small nod, and walked toward her parents' car. The taillights glowed red against the asphalt as they drove away.
I stood there for a while, notebook under my arm, the words of Dr. Sturgis echoing in my mind: Curiosity doesn't care about age. It only asks to be fed.
Maybe that was true. But what he didn't say, what I was starting to understand, was that curiosity, like hunger, could eat you alive if you didn't stop to breathe.
The campus had mostly emptied by the time I noticed Dr. Sturgis watching me from the steps. The orange glow from the parking lot lights caught the edge of his glasses, making them flash whenever he moved.
"She left already?" he asked gently.
I nodded. "Her parents looked tired. She looked worse."
He sighed, not the sound of disappointment, but recognition. "I've seen that look before. Gifted children often carry the world before anyone asks if they want to."
I leaned against the low brick wall, arms crossed. "Feels like there's no safe place to set it down."
He smiled faintly. "That's why we learn balance, Stephen. You and your brother both, you chase ideas that never end. That's noble, but exhausting."
"Paige is burning out," I said. "I think she knows it too."
He tilted his head. "And what about you?"
I looked out toward the dark field beyond the lot. "I'm holding steady." It was mostly true.
Dr. Sturgis chuckled softly. "Ah, yes, the answer of every young prodigy. Stable orbit, no turbulence."
He stepped closer, his voice quieting. "You have something rare, Stephen, the ability to see when others are falling apart. But be careful not to use that sight only outward. The same fire that consumes one genius will gladly take another."
I thought of Paige's hollow eyes, Sheldon's endless arguments, and my own journals filled with questions I never answered.
"Maybe it's not fire," I said. "Maybe it's gravity. The smarter we get, the more we pull toward ourselves."
He smiled at that, proud, almost wistful. "And gravity, young man, is patient. It always wins in the end."
The silence that followed wasn't awkward. Just honest.
After a moment, he said, "Your mother's waiting, I imagine."
"Probably wondering if Sheldon's convinced the car she's driving violates thermodynamics again."
He laughed, shaking his head. "Tell her I said she's raising two beautiful paradoxes."
As I turned to leave, he called out one last thing: "Stephen, don't forget. Even the universe needs rest between pulses."
I didn't answer, but I stored the words away, the way I did with every truth that felt heavier than it sounded.
The house was quiet when we got home. Mom went straight to the kitchen, Sheldon straight to his notebook, and Dad had already fallen asleep in his chair. The hum of the refrigerator was the only sound that didn't feel tired.
I sat at my desk, opened my ciphered journal, and stared at the blank page for a long minute before writing:
"Paige is dimming. Dr. Sturgis says even the universe rests between pulses. Maybe that's what I need too."
I paused, then added one more line beneath it:
"Maybe the smartest thing we ever learn is when to stop."
I closed the journal, turned off the lamp, and let the silence finish the thought for me.