I used to think I understood silence. Growing up with Keane taught me to notice things others overlooked: a flicker in his eyes, a slight clench in his jaw, the precise way he lined up his pencils by color and size before starting homework. You either developed real patience—or learned to fake it well enough. Pretending was how we survived our childhood.
Keane was diagnosed when he was three. I was six. I don’t recall the exact moment we got the news, but I remember the shift that followed.
The house became quieter. Mom grew restless. Dad started snapping over odd things—crinkling chip bags, cartoons playing too loud. I learned to make myself small, nearly invisible.
But Keane? He didn’t change. He remained gentle, distant. Sometimes, he’d smile—usually at ceiling fans or drifting clouds.