[autism spectrum disorder]

They called her Bird Girl when she was little because she'd flap her arms the way baby birds tried to fly, like she could sever her connection with the dirt and become as free as an eagle. She was odd even then, flinching at the slightest touch of skin — hand brushing over arm like a fuse to a bomb — so she'd stay away from her classmates, sitting with her knees to her chest and staring at the cloudy sky, wondering if she could touch the sun.

When she went to middle school, she wasn't Bird Girl anymore, but Star Girl — because she realized she could touch the galaxies with the outer reaches of her mind, that she was a universe within herself and each and every star was an opportunity she'd never taken. So she fell in love with the space between them, charting every number, every lightyear, every nebula she could get her hands on, clawing her way through the darkness until she found light.

Her teachers thought her strange because she danced in the middle of gym class, twirling as she drowned out the noise — hormonal teenage boys screaming their importance at every opportunity like she even cared. And when she answered questions in class, she answered in formulas and algorithms some of them had never heard before.

In high school, she understood everything perfectly because she was a nebula — understood everything except the people-shaped enigmas that surrounded her each day. She didn't understand how they'd say one thing then say another, how they'd stare her in the eyes until she dug her fingernails into her palms wishing for it to end. She didn't understand them.

When she grew up, she wanted to be an astrophysicist, not a lawyer or a doctor like the other people in her grade. She felt like the stars understood her better then she did so she sang their praise every day, shouting their sizes and masses from metaphorical rooftops and classroom conversations until the people higher up on the totem pole laughed at her when she wasn't listening. She no longer wanted to be a bird, because she'd found something even freer. Something even more beautiful.

Ninth grade was the hardest because sometimes people would call her names and tell her she was dumb. Not sometimes, actually. Her chances of being under their thrall were bigger than Betelgeuse, shining clear as darkness fell. The teachers didn't listen. They never did. They didn't care about anyone who tapped their desks in the middle of class, seeking out rhythms with their pencil. They thought she was just as worthless as a worm who never saw the stars.

And when she finally found her niche, she laughed at them because now they were janitors. They never understood the stars, so they never became them.