I stepped outside. In a new skin. My first steps were unsteady. I felt unnatural and awkward to myself. It wasn’t my body—it weighed me down and restrained me. I was ashamed of it. Over time, I learned to move with more confidence, but that initial impression never completely left me. I constantly analyzed the propriety of my movements and behaviors; I was a vigilant, strict, always distrustful observer of myself, never satisfied, guarding a correctness that was meant to draw no attention. In the skin of a boy.

But I wasn’t just observing myself. I analyzed the strange web stretched between others. Every movement set its threads trembling. Some moved timidly, others more boldly. A few made abrupt, brazen motions, playing with the waves spreading out across the web from their centers. Many limited themselves to necessary movements, showing no interest in the influence of their center on the web. There were also those who tried not to move at all—some so as not to be noticed, others the opposite, awaiting attention for their stillness and reacting with offense to a lack of it. Then there were those who pretended stillness when watched but tugged fiercely at the threads when they believed no one saw.

I saw it all. Everything and everyone. All while trying not to disturb the web myself, not even the slightest. It was impossible. I couldn’t remain motionless. But I discovered that I could yield to the movements of the web, offering no resistance to its vibrations, succumbing to every wave that spread across it, and in this way remain virtually invisible.

I became the antithesis of the active centers of motion within the web. But I knew that wasn’t everything. I sensed that I wouldn’t be able to avoid contact with others. And I felt a tingling anticipation.