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Lost in the Noise
A short story from Chronicles of a Quiet Fighter.
Set in late 1990s Florida: Caleb, a 13-year-old autistic kid who doesn’t yet know the word “autistic,” faces math tests, reading out loud, cafeteria chaos, and quiet journal reflection.
Morning
I wake up already tired. Like my bones remembered yesterday and decided to skip today. The ceiling fan makes a low hum that rattles through my head. Morning light slips through the blinds, too bright, too sharp.
Down the hallway, I hear Ryan talking to Mom in his loud morning voice. It feels like someone’s pressing on my chest when I hear it, but I try to breathe through it.
The kitchen smells like coffee and toast. The plates clink together, each clink hitting my ears like a spark. Mom—Angela—smiles at me, tired too.
“Try your best today, okay Caleb?”
I nod. “Okay.”
I don’t tell her that my best yesterday still wasn’t enough.
Jenna’s already at the door, backpack hanging off one shoulder, covered in Lisa Frank stickers and an N*SYNC pin. She doesn’t look back, but I watch her anyway.
I grab my own backpack—heavy, even though there’s nothing inside except the weight I carry every day: the numbers that don’t stay in place, the words that slip away when I read aloud, the noise, the lights, the stares.
Outside, the Florida sun feels like it’s burning through my shirt before I even get to the bus. The diesel engine rumbles through my whole body, vibrating in my teeth.
I sit by the window, press my forehead to the glass.
I practice the mask:
Smile.
Sit up straight like Jenna.
Don’t flap your hands.
Don’t cover your ears.
Don’t let them see you’re different.
But under the mask, my heart is already pounding—and the school day hasn’t even started yet.
Math
The bell rings too loud, slicing through my ears and rattling my chest. I flinch, but force myself to sit still. Can’t let anyone see.
The teacher hands out a timed multiplication test. Just a sheet of numbers, but it might as well be a page of static.
I grip my pencil so tight my knuckles turn white. My hand already hurts.
“You have five minutes,” she says, like it’s nothing.
Five minutes feels like a threat.
I look down. The numbers slide around, trading places like they’re laughing at me. 6×8… I know that one. Was it 48? Or 42? My chest gets tight.
Other kids’ pencils scratch the paper so fast it sounds like a thousand tiny bugs crawling. My heart slams in my ears, drowning out everything else.
I circle the problem and move on. 7×7. I know this. I know this.
Blank.
Nothing.
Just buzzing in my head and sweat on my neck.
The teacher walks by. Her shadow falls over my desk.
“Caleb,” she whispers, but it still feels too loud.
“Stop daydreaming. Focus.”
Focus.
I’m trying. I want to scream it. But my mouth won’t work.
My leg bounces under the desk, heel tapping against the metal chair leg, a rhythm that calms me for a second. But the teacher’s eyes catch it.
“Sit still.”
I stop. The buzzing in my head comes back stronger.
By the end, half the sheet is blank. I write random numbers in the last few boxes, hoping maybe I’ll get lucky.
The bell rings again, too sharp. I flinch again. Nobody notices—or they pretend not to.
As we leave, I hear two kids behind me.
“How can anyone be that stupid?”
“He’s so weird.”
I keep walking, eyes on the floor.
Mask back on.
Smile back on.
Heart sinking anyway.
Reading
After math, it’s language arts. I’m still shaking. My shirt feels itchy at the collar, and my head feels stuffed with fog.
The teacher starts round-robin reading from Where the Red Fern Grows. My stomach drops.
I try to count ahead to see which paragraph will be mine. I trace the words with my finger, heart hammering. The letters look okay now—but I know they’ll blur when it’s my turn.
“Caleb, your turn.”
Her voice snaps in my ears. I look down.
The words slip and smear. My throat tightens.
“T‑the dog…”
My voice is too quiet. I clear my throat, but it just comes out scratchy.
“The dog r‑ran…”
Someone giggles. My ears burn. My eyes water, but I blink hard so no one sees.
“The dog ran b‑back…”
My chest feels like it’s caving in. Every word fights me. The letters float just out of reach, turning into shapes instead of words.
The teacher sighs.
“Louder, Caleb.”
I try. It still comes out shaky, small.
I can feel the whole class watching. Like ants crawling all over me.
Finally, my paragraph ends. I drop my head, stare at the desk, sweat prickling my scalp.
When the teacher calls on me again later, I say I don’t know where we are.
She sighs again.
“Pay attention next time.”
But I was.
I always am.
Too much, maybe.
Cafeteria
The bell rings for lunch. Another slap of noise against my ears.
The hallway smells like sweat, cheap perfume, and something fried. My head’s already buzzing.
I push open the cafeteria doors. The sound hits like a wall: trays slamming, kids shouting, chairs scraping the floor, echo bouncing off the tile. The fluorescent lights above flicker and hum — a sound no one else seems to hear, but it drills into my skull.
I stand in line, trying to keep my breathing even. The kid in front of me talks too loud, every word like a poke to the side of my head.
The lunch lady asks what I want. Her voice sounds far away, like I’m underwater. I mumble “pizza,” hoping it’s the right answer.
I find an empty spot at the end of a table. Jenna sits with her friends across the room; I don’t want to bother her.
I keep my head down, peel the cheese off the pizza slice bit by bit. The tomato smell makes my stomach turn, but I eat anyway.
Then it builds: the clatter of a dropped tray behind me, someone screeching with laughter, metal chair legs scraping so loud it feels like they slice through my brain.
My heart speeds up. My chest feels too tight. I squeeze my hands into fists under the table. Nails bite into my palms, grounding me for a second.
I want to cover my ears — just for a second. But I don’t. If I do, they’ll stare. They’ll know.
The noise keeps getting louder, even if it doesn’t really. Like everything’s turned up past what my body can hold.
My head throbs. My stomach flips. For a moment, I feel like I might throw up or cry or both.
“Hey, weirdo.” Someone walking past says it low, but sharp. They don’t even stop, just keep going.
The word sinks into my chest like a stone.
The bell rings again. Too loud, too sudden. I jump in my seat. Someone laughs.
I grab my tray, dump it half-finished, and leave. My hands shake. My ears ring. My face burns.
Home & Journal
After school, the bus ride home is quieter, but the engine still hums through my skull. I stare out the window, watching the mossy oaks blur past.
At home, Ryan runs up, little-kid grin, holding a toy car.
“Caleb! Want to play?”
I shake my head, trying to smile so he doesn’t feel bad.
“Maybe later, Ry.”
Jenna knocks on my door a minute later.
“You okay?”
I nod. She hesitates, then just says:
“Okay. Dinner’s soon.”
My room is quiet except for the fan ticking and the distant sound of Ryan’s cartoon in the living room.
I sit on the bed, backpack still on, and breathe. One breath. Another.
My chest still hurts from holding it all in.
I pull my journal from under the pillow. The cover is worn; the edges bent from being carried everywhere.
The pen shakes in my hand, but I start anyway:
Math was bad. Numbers moved too much.
Reading was worse. Everyone heard my voice shake.
Cafeteria was too loud. Head felt like breaking.
They called me weird again.
I don’t know why it feels like this.
I tried to be normal. Tried so hard my chest hurts.
But it’s never enough.Maybe tomorrow I can try again.
Even if they don’t see it — I’m still fighting.
Quietly.
But fighting.
I close the journal, press it to my chest, and let the weight of the day sink into the pages instead of my bones.
Outside, the Florida sun dips low, painting the sky pink and gold. For a moment, it’s quiet enough to breathe.
"Lost in the Noise" is part of Chronicles of a Quiet Fighter, a collection of raw, sensory stories exploring what it means to grow up autistic and unseen in the 1990s. Masking, overwhelm, and the quiet bravery to keep trying.
Thank you for reading. If this story spoke to you, share it or leave a comment below. Your voice matters too.
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