Unspoken Rules

Fine Print

TJ Evarts was a data analyst by trade and a truth-teller by instinct. He read every user agreement. He corrected street signs when the punctuation was off. When he was eight, he told his friend’s mom that her spaghetti was “undercooked and gummy,” and he hadn’t understood why his friend never invited him over again.

At thirty-two, TJ lived alone in a clean, white apartment. He wore the same five button-down shirts in rotation and had an Excel sheet that tracked their wash cycles. He liked predictability. Rules. Clarity.

What he didn’t like was people.

Not because he disliked their company — at least, not inherently. He just didn’t get them.

People said things they didn’t mean. They smiled when they were annoyed. They asked, “How are you?” but didn’t want an actual answer.

And society had a hundred silent rules no one would admit were rules. Rules like: Don’t correct your boss’s grammar in a meeting, even if he says “irregardless.” Don’t bring Tupperware to an all-you-can-eat buffet. Don’t mention someone’s obvious nose job unless they bring it up first.

These were not rules TJ had agreed to, and he resented being punished for breaking them.

But he was trying. Really. His therapist, Dr. Khanna, had suggested “exposure and reflection,” so he’d started attending a weekly trivia night at the local bar. It was loud and chaotic and filled with unspoken expectations, but it was a start.

That’s where he met her.

Paige.

She joined his team one night as a fill-in. Wore combat boots and a leather jacket covered in enamel pins. She answered three obscure film questions in a row and clapped for herself without irony. TJ admired that.

“You’re good at this,” he said.

“I’m good at weird things,” she replied, popping a peanut into her mouth. “Like knowing that frogs don’t drink water — they absorb it through their skin.”

TJ stared. “That’s correct.”

She grinned. “You’re weird too, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

She laughed like that was the best answer he could have given.

Three weeks later, they were seeing each other. Not dating, exactly — TJ didn’t like labels unless they were precisely defined — but spending time together regularly.

He liked her directness. She didn’t flinch when he said unusual things. When he asked if she liked him romantically or just platonically, she said, “I’m still deciding,” and he respected that.

But then came the party.

Pagie invited him to her friend’s birthday gathering. A “casual hang,” she called it. TJ prepared by researching social events, watching videos about “how to be chill,” and rehearsing small talk prompts in the mirror.

He wore khakis and a navy sweater. Safe. Neutral.

The moment they walked in, he was overstimulated. Too many voices. Flashing lights. Smells he couldn’t identify. He hovered behind Pagie like a lost intern.

A woman offered him a drink. He declined. She looked at him like he’d refused a handshake.

Strike one.

Later, he stood near a group discussing a recent TV show. Someone said, “The finale was a betrayal of the characters.”

TJ, trying to participate, replied, “Betrayal implies intent. The writers made narrative decisions that were unsatisfying, not malicious.”

The group went silent. Someone fake-laughed. They turned away.

Strike two.

But the final straw came during a game of "Never Have I Ever."

TJ didn’t want to play — too many variables — but Paige nudged him in.

Someone said, “Never have I ever lied to get out of plans.”

Everyone drank. Everyone except TJ.

“You’ve never lied to get out of something?” someone asked.

“No,” Miles said. “That would be dishonest.”

They laughed. He didn’t.

“So what do you say when you don’t want to hang out?” a guy named Bryeton asked, smirking.

“I say, ‘I don’t want to hang out.’”

More laughter. Not friendly this time. Pagie shifted uncomfortably.

“Man, you really don’t care how that comes off, do you?”

“I care about clarity.”

Bryeton shook his head. “Clarity’s not the same as kindness.”

“I disagree. Ambiguity isn’t kind. It’s manipulative.”

The mood soured. Paige touched his arm. “Let’s get some air,” she said.

Outside, they sat on the curb.

“You okay?” she asked.

“I followed the instructions. I participated. I answered honestly.”

She hesitated. “You were... a bit intense.”

“What did I do wrong?”

“It’s not about wrong. It’s just — there’s a rhythm to these things. A way to be... less abrasive.”

He stared at her. “Is honesty abrasive?”

“It can be.”

TJ looked up at the sky, searching for logic in the stars.

“Why is it acceptable to lie to spare feelings, but not to tell the truth gently?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “It just is.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“No,” she admitted, “but it’s the truth.”

He didn’t go to trivia the next week. Or the week after.

Pagie texted a few times — short, friendly. He replied, but curtly. He didn’t know how to bridge the space that had opened between them.

Instead, he retreated further into his routines.

Until one day, at work, something snapped.

His manager, Emily, sent an email with a chart that was clearly mislabeled. The Y-axis said “Revenue” but the data showed “Customer Churn.”

TJ corrected it. Replied all. Attached the right chart.

He thought he was being helpful.

Instead, he was called into her office.

“TJ, we need to talk about tone.”

“The tone of the email?”

“Yes. You embarrassed me in front of the team.”

“I corrected an error. Should I have let the error stand?”

“It’s not what you said. It’s how you said it.”

He wanted to scream. Or leave. Or both.

Instead, he asked, “What do you want me to say in the future?”

She sighed. “Just... bring things to me directly. Privately.”

“You want me to pretend the mistake didn’t exist until you approve its correction?”

She blinked. “I want you to think about impact. Not just accuracy.”

Impact over truth. Feelings over facts. It was all backwards.

He nodded slowly.

And walked out.

That night, he called Pagie.

“I don’t get it,” he said, without hello.

“Hi to you too,” she replied gently. “What don’t you get?”

“People expect me to know the rules without stating them. But when I ask for the rules, they say, ‘It depends.’ If I follow logic, I’m cold. If I follow emotion, I’m inconsistent. I can’t win.”

There was a pause.

“TJ,” she said carefully, “maybe it’s not about winning.”

“Then what’s it about?”

“Connecting. Making space for messiness.”

He was quiet.

“Do you want to come over?” she asked. “We don’t have to talk. We can just be.”

TJ hesitated.

Then- “Yes.”

Pagie didn’t try to fix him. She let him fume. Let him exist.

Eventually, he said, “I need rules. Or a manual. Something.”

She smiled. “I can’t give you a manual. But I can tell you what works with me. Want to start there?”

He nodded.

She made a list.

Say what you feel, but ask how it lands.

Jokes aren’t always literal. But if you’re not sure, just ask.

It's okay to say “I don’t know what to say.”

Sometimes people want comfort, not solutions.

Eye contact isn’t mandatory.

It’s okay to take breaks.

TJ studied it like scripture.

He carried it in his pocket for weeks.

Months passed. He made small changes. Not to who he was, but to how he communicated who he was.

He still told the truth. But now, he asked first- “Do you want honesty or comfort?”

He still corrected errors. But privately, unless the consequences demanded urgency.

He still didn’t lie to get out of plans. But he’d say, “Thanks for inviting me, but I need rest,” instead of “I don’t want to hang out.”

He didn’t become normal. He became understood. And that made all the difference.

One evening, over trivia, someone mentioned frogs. TJ didn’t interrupt to explain. He just looked at Paige, and she smiled — already knowing he knew.