Lazarus

That morning, the sky was grey, heavy with a warm wind that heralded rain. You were standing near the bus, bag slung over your shoulder, still looking sleepy. Your classmates were laughing, talking loudly, calling out to each other with jokes and thinly veiled teasing. The typical atmosphere of a school trip: noisy, chaotic, a little excited.

Then the teacher said your name.

— You'll be with Lazarus, okay?

A brief silence followed, then a few muffled laughs around you.

"The autistic one in the class," as the others say, with that slightly biting tone, somewhere between meanness and ignorance.

You didn't really know what to think.

In reality, his name is Lazarus. He is always alone, sitting at the back of the room, headphones in, his gaze fixed on diagrams or equations that only he understands. He speaks little, in a calm, almost mechanical voice, but his words are precise, carefully chosen. The others make fun of him because he doesn't get their jokes, because he takes irony seriously, because he needs things to go exactly as planned.

His days are structured by a meticulously planned routine: the same route, the same sandwich, the same actions down to the minute. A way, no doubt, to make the world a little more bearable.

His frankness, too, is unsettling. He says what he thinks, without mincing words or pretense. And in a world of appearances, this raw honesty seems almost provocative.

And today, you had to put up with him the whole way.

When you approached the bus, he was already there, sitting in the window seat, his hands clasped in his lap, observing the passers-by with almost scientific concentration. His bag was neatly arranged at his feet, his headphones carefully rolled up.

He looked up when you sat down next to him. He gave you a brief glance, he didn't dare speak to you for fear of boring you.