Morning light filtered through the kitchen window as Alex sat at the table, cradling a lukewarm mug of cocoa. His mother, radiant with pride more than sleep, launched into her trademark soliloquy of praise.

Mother: “I just can’t believe it, Alex! Your workbook today was nothing short of genius—a true display of brilliance! Your teacher even said you’d inspire generations!”

Alex’s stomach churned. He wasn’t a genius—he was painfully ordinary, scrambling through homework with the quiet desperation of a kid who’d rather be anywhere else. Every time he tried to interject with a modest correction, words would twist into silent tangles inside him.

He opened his mouth, a small, desperate plea ready to burst forth:

Alex (internally): “Mom, please—you’re exaggerating...”

But the words remained locked behind his tongue. They surfaced as a mere, choked “Umm…” before being drowned out by his mother’s ever-increasing praise.

Mother: “Truly, you have this rare gift. When you solve problems, it’s like the ideas themselves light up the room! Oh, and did I mention the neighbor, Mrs. Carter, was just calling about how special you are? Isn’t that just marvelous?”

Alex’s eyes darted around, searching for a break. The kitchen suddenly felt too small, the praise too vast. He wriggled in his seat, his heart hammering, yearning to speak up—to temper this overwhelming false narrative. Instead, he managed only a series of soft, uneven murmurs that nobody noticed.

Later, at school, the same dilemma trailed him. In group work sessions, when his classmates asked about his ideas, his voice was a jumbled whisper against the hum of expectation. In the corridor, his smile was brittle, his eyes pleading for a moment of reprieve when he thought, *Please, let me just say I’m not a genius—I’m just trying my best, like everyone else.* But the words never found their way out. They simply sat there, an awkward secret between him and the silent hum of his mind.

By the end of the day, as Alex slumped on the train home, the silence of his unspoken truth pressed heavily on him. His mother’s words had painted him in hues he knew were too bright, too grand, and all he could do was let the unuttered syllables echo in the quiet of a day that had robbed him of his own voice.

And so, as the train rattled on, Alex resolved—if only in thought—to find the courage for just one clear word tomorrow: the truth of who he really was, no matter how ordinary that might be.