Cycle I: Coming on Strong
The Hidden Voice
Record ~ Kawaii · 10 (v1.00)
THE HOUSE OF ZAN — Zan
♡ Reol — THE SIXTH SENSE
OPENING: 「ありがとう」だけでいい？
FRAGILE!
Oh, I love that sticker.
It’s so dramatic.
You put it on a box, and suddenly everybody knows there’s something important inside.
Something that deserves a little extra attention.
HANDLE WITH CARE!
Very official.
Very impressive.
Although I wonder who decides what counts as fragile.
Glass?
Certainly.
A porcelain teacup?
Absolutely.
A package containing seventeen rubber ducks?
…
Well.
That depends.
Are they particularly important ducks?
Perhaps they’re collectors’ items.
Perhaps somebody has spent years assembling the most magnificent rubber duck collection in the entire world.
Then be careful!
Those ducks have a reputation to maintain!
(•ө•)
But here’s something I’ve noticed.
People use words like fragile and broken when talking about other people, too.
Which seems rather strange.
I don’t recall seeing anybody arrive with a manufacturer’s label.
Although that would be convenient.
Imagine meeting somebody who comes with instructions.
Enjoys interesting conversations.
Occasionally makes questionable decisions.
Do not expose to unnecessary nonsense.
Excellent!
I’d appreciate that last one.
I might even put it on a little badge.
But people are considerably more complicated than packages.
You can’t look at somebody and know everything they’ve experienced.
You don’t know which things they find difficult.
Or whether something that once bothered them still does.
Yet some people seem remarkably confident about these things.
I know exactly what’s wrong with you!
…
Oh?
Do you?
That’s impressive.
We’ve barely finished saying hello.
Perhaps you should explain how you’ve reached such an extraordinary conclusion.
Preferably without announcing that you possess mysterious powers.
I find those explanations suspicious.
Especially online.
Because there’s something wonderful about meeting somebody who seems to understand you.
Somebody who listens.
Who remembers what you’ve said.
Who notices when you’re having a difficult day.
You remembered!
I told you something important, and you actually paid attention!
(˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶)
But what if the attention changes?
Suppose I tell somebody I’ve been having a difficult week.
They listen.
They’re thoughtful.
Perhaps they say exactly what I needed to hear.
Lovely!
Then, a little later, I tell them I’ve had an excellent day.
Something worked out.
I’ve been enjoying myself.
Perhaps I finally stopped worrying about something that had been bothering me.
Wonderful news!
Except they don’t seem particularly pleased.
Oh.
You’re fine now?
I suppose you don’t need me anymore.
…
Excuse me?
Was I supposed to remain miserable?
Nobody mentioned that requirement.
I would have read the instructions more carefully.
Actually, no.
I wouldn’t have agreed to them in the first place.
Because why would somebody who cares about me prefer that I stay unhappy?
I understand enjoying being helpful.
I like helping!
Especially when I know what I’m doing.
An important detail.
And there’s something lovely about knowing another person trusts you enough to ask for assistance.
But if their difficulties are the only reason I feel important, perhaps I should be asking myself what I’m actually enjoying.
Helping them?
Or being needed?
…
Hmm.
Those aren’t necessarily the same thing.
Suppose somebody tells me something personal.
Perhaps they’re embarrassed.
Perhaps they’ve made a mistake.
Or perhaps they’re trying to understand why something keeps going wrong.
They’ve trusted me with information I didn’t have before.
What am I supposed to do with what they’ve told me?
I could listen.
Ask whether they want advice.
Remember that they’ve trusted me.
Or I could behave as though discovering something personal gives me a special position in their life.
As though I’ve found a secret entrance.
A shortcut past all the ordinary business of getting to know somebody.
Congratulations!
You’ve learned one important thing!
You now understand the entire person!
…
No.
That doesn’t sound right.
Knowing where somebody has struggled doesn’t mean I know everything about them.
And being invited to understand something personal doesn’t mean I’ve been given permission to use it however I please.
Because there’s a peculiar kind of attention that can seem very thoughtful at first.
Somebody remembers everything you’ve told them.
Every disappointment.
Every insecurity.
Every moment you wondered whether you were good enough.
And perhaps they’re listening because they care.
I’d like to think so.
But what if they start bringing those things up whenever you disagree?
What if an ordinary difference of opinion becomes another opportunity to remind you how confused you supposedly are?
Or how nobody else could possibly understand you?
Or how fortunate you should feel that somebody is willing to put up with you?
That’s a terrible way to treat somebody.
Especially somebody who trusted you.
I thought we were getting to know each other.
Apparently, somebody has been taking notes for an entirely different reason.
How suspicious!
I’d like to inspect those notes.
And perhaps the person taking them.
Because I’m beginning to wonder what they’re hoping to accomplish.
There’s also something strange about being told that somebody is the only person who can understand you.
The only one?
In the entire world?
That’s an extraordinary claim.
There are billions of people on this planet.
And apparently, after a few conversations, we’ve determined that every single one of them is completely unqualified.
Including people neither of us has met.
Remarkable!
I’d love to see the research.
Did we contact everybody?
Was there a survey?
Did somebody check the astronauts?
Because there might be a very understanding person on a space station right now.
And I’d hate to exclude them without asking.
But I suspect nobody has actually done the research.
Which makes me wonder whether I’m the only one who understands you is always intended as a compliment.
Sometimes it probably is.
People exaggerate when they’re excited.
I certainly do.
You should hear me discussing an excellent dessert.
THE GREATEST DESSERT IN HUMAN HISTORY!
(๑´ڡ`๑)
Very convincing.
Possibly inaccurate.
But convincing.
Still, there’s a difference between being excited that two people understand each other and insisting that nobody else should have the opportunity.
One sounds like appreciation.
The other sounds like somebody is trying to become indispensable.
Important?
Certainly!
Special?
Wonderful!
But the only person I’m allowed to rely on?
Absolutely not!
What happens if they’re busy?
What if they’re wrong?
What if I’d simply rather talk to somebody else?
Am I supposed to apologize?
For what?
Having a life?
That’s a peculiar offense.
I wasn’t aware it had become prohibited.
I certainly didn’t agree to any of this.
And now I’m remembering something.
The sticker!
We haven’t discussed what happens when somebody decides to put one on you.
FRAGILE.
BROKEN.
REQUIRES SPECIAL HANDLING.
Perhaps they’re concerned.
Perhaps they believe they’re being helpful.
Or perhaps they’re rather pleased with the idea that they’ve discovered somebody who needs them.
But I think I’d like to inspect the label before accepting it.
Who wrote this?
What exactly does it mean?
And why does it seem to come with instructions about which people I’m allowed to talk to?
That’s not how a fragile sticker works!
A fragile sticker is supposed to warn somebody to be careful with the contents.
It isn’t supposed to announce that the person holding the box now owns everything inside.
Honestly!
Imagine ordering a lovely porcelain teacup and discovering that the delivery person has decided to keep it.
I handled this very carefully.
Therefore, it belongs to me.
…
WHAT?!
Σ(°ロ°)
That’s not how deliveries work!
And that’s certainly not how people work.
But something similar can happen when somebody becomes attached to the idea of knowing what’s wrong with another person.
Every problem becomes evidence that they’re needed.
Every disagreement becomes evidence that the other person is confused.
Every attempt at independence becomes evidence that something must be going wrong.
And somehow, the solution is always the same.
Listen to me.
Trust me.
You need me.
How convenient.
For them.
Because the more uncertain somebody becomes, the more important the person offering certainty can seem.
Perhaps they want to be the answer to everything.
…
I have a question.
What happens when the answer is wrong?
Are we allowed to notice?
I’d hope somebody genuinely trying to help me would be pleased if I learned enough to make my own decisions.
Even if I eventually discovered that they’d been mistaken.
That might be embarrassing for them.
I understand.
I don’t particularly enjoy being wrong, either.
I can become rather attached to my own answers.
Especially when I’ve said them out loud.
But if helping somebody requires me to remain correct forever, I’ve made a rather dangerous promise.
Especially if I’m going to punish them whenever they notice I haven’t kept it.
And I think that’s the part that bothers me most.
Somebody can say they care about you.
They can listen carefully.
They can remember things nobody else knows.
And still use what they’ve learned to make you feel less capable of deciding anything without them.
That’s a strange kind of care.
One that seems to become more valuable to the person offering it as the person receiving it becomes less confident.
I don’t like that arrangement.
Not one bit.
And I don’t particularly like the idea of becoming somebody who needs another person’s uncertainty to feel important.
I enjoy being appreciated!
But I don’t want somebody to appreciate me because I’ve convinced them nobody else will.
Imagine announcing:
I’ve become the most important person in somebody’s life!
Wonderful!
How did you do it?
I persuaded them they weren’t worth knowing unless I said so.
…
Oh.
That’s not impressive.
That’s awful.
I’d rather somebody enjoy knowing me because they genuinely like who I am.
Not because they’re frightened of what might happen if they stop.
And if they’re having a difficult time?
I hope things get better.
Even if that means they don’t need as much help from me.
I might miss being useful.
That’s allowed.
But I’d have no business treating their happiness as an inconvenience.
There’s another possibility, though.
What if the person behaving this way has difficulties of their own?
What if being needed is the only way they know how to feel important?
Well…
That might explain something.
It wouldn’t excuse how they treat people.
And it certainly wouldn’t make their demands somebody else’s responsibility.
I can recognize that another person has problems without agreeing to become the solution to all of them.
People aren’t packages waiting for somebody clever enough to read the shipping label.
Which reminds me.
Those rubber ducks?
Still extremely valuable.
Possibly priceless.
But they actually belong in a box.
People don’t.
And perhaps that’s the distinction I’ve been looking for.
If I tell somebody that something hurts, I haven’t handed them the right to decide what happens next.
If I admit that I’ve made mistakes, I haven’t agreed that I’m incapable of making decisions.
And if I allow somebody to become important to me, I haven’t promised they’ll be the only important person in my life.
Those things might seem obvious.
Until somebody makes you feel very special for trusting them.
Then it can become surprisingly easy to believe you owe them something for listening.
Perhaps gratitude.
That’s reasonable.
Somebody who treats you thoughtfully deserves appreciation.
But gratitude isn’t a lifetime contract.
It doesn’t mean every favor becomes a debt.
Or every private conversation becomes evidence to be brought up later.
Excuse me?
I didn’t know we were keeping accounts.
Where’s my copy?
(￣ヘ￣)
Actually, I’d prefer not to participate.
This arrangement sounds dreadful.
I’d rather get to know somebody without wondering whether they’re collecting reasons I should feel grateful to them.
And I’d like them to have the same freedom with me.
We could enjoy each other’s company.
Occasionally disagree.
Perhaps even help each other when something goes wrong.
No extraordinary promises.
No mysterious claims about being the only person in the universe who understands anything.
And absolutely no requirement that somebody remain unhappy to keep the arrangement interesting.
I rather like that.
But I suppose there’s still a difficult question.
How do you know whether somebody’s attention is genuine?
Because I don’t think you can always tell from a charming introduction.
Or a thoughtful conversation.
Or even somebody remembering something important.
Those things can mean a lot.
But perhaps what happens afterward matters, too.
Do they respect what you’ve shared?
Can you disagree?
Can you change your mind?
Do they seem pleased when something goes well for you, even if they had nothing to do with it?
And perhaps most importantly…
Can you still be yourself when they aren’t around?
I’m keeping my opinions, my peculiar interests, my right to make terrible jokes, and my ability to decide which people I want to know.
As for the sticker?
Well.
I still think it’s adorable.
Bright letters.
Very dramatic.
FRAGILE!
But perhaps I’ll save it for something that actually needs a shipping label.
Because if somebody insists that I must be broken simply because they’ve noticed a few difficult things about my life, I might have something to say about that.
They could have noticed something important.
I might even appreciate them asking.
But noticing where somebody has struggled doesn’t mean you’ve discovered what they’re worth.
Or who they’re supposed to become.
Or how much of themselves they owe you.
And if somebody is particularly disappointed that I’m doing better?
Well.
I think I’d like to know why.
Because there’s something I’d much rather have than a person who insists they’re the only one who can put me back together.
Somebody who enjoys knowing me without requiring me to fall apart first.
And telling somebody where something hurts isn’t an invitation to keep pressing on it.
I’d hope they understood that.
Especially if they were the one who said they’d handle me with care.
…
Speaking of which.
Where did I put those rubber ducks?
They’re very delicate.
And I’m rather fond of them.
Please be careful!
(•ө•)
ENDING: Is “thank you” enough?