The Phrasebook

There used to be a translation for everything.

“No, that’s not what was meant.”

“Here’s what happened.”

“That came out wrong.”

“Hang on, let me try that again.”

Whole evenings disappeared into finding the right words.

Surely, with enough explaining, everyone would eventually understand.

Thus, the phrasebook got thicker.

New sections appeared.

Things to say when someone thinks you’re rude.

Things to say when your face didn’t do the expected thing.

Things to say when the first explanation needs its own explanation.

Then, somewhere along the way, something peculiar ensued.

A misunderstanding was left untranslated.

Nobody died.

Another one sat there.

Uncorrected.

Still breathing.

The phrasebook spends more time in a drawer now.

It isn’t dusty. Let’s not lie.

A bad misunderstanding could still have those pages flying open before anyone’s had time to think.

But recently, while in the middle of explaining a thing for the third damn time, a surprising question interrupted.

Would being understood here actually change anything?

Well then.

Years went into believing the right combo of words could unlock all humans. Find the combo. Turn the little dial. Click. Finally, they’d see.

Except people aren’t safes.

Sometimes the explanation is perfectly fine.

There wasn’t a better sentence hiding somewhere.

And still, no click.

Walking away from that used to feel unfinished, almost physically incorrect. Kinda like leaving home with the stove on.

Now the discomfort can come with you.

And it can sulk in the passenger seat.

The car still leaves.

Maybe that’s what changed.

Not caring less.

Knowing when you’ve said enough.

— Autistic Ang

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