It started on the 6 train. One of those nights where the air underground feels thick, like everyone’s breath is trapped in a conspiracy of humidity.
I was scrolling mindlessly, pretending not to exist, when a guy next to me muttered,
“Did you know the New York City subway system has 472 stations?”
I glanced up.
He was mid-twenties, wearing a Mets cap too big for his head. He looked like the kind of guy who’d correct your Star Wars references but wouldn’t make you feel bad about it.
Before I could respond, he kept going.
“The deepest station is 191st Street—173 feet underground. Also, the Q train isn’t actually yellow, it’s just depicted that way on maps.”
Alright.
We had a subway savant in our midst.
Most people would nod politely, maybe shift a little to signal they weren’t up for an impromptu TED Talk. But I did the opposite. I put my phone down.
“Why do you know that?” I asked.
The Database in His Brain
His eyes lit up like I’d just given him the launch codes.
“I have autism,” he said. “My brain categorizes things automatically. It’s like a database I can’t turn off.”
And just like that, I was in. Because if there’s one thing that makes a person more interesting than they were five seconds ago, it’s the phrase “my brain categorizes things automatically.”
I learned his name was Ethan.
He had a photographic memory for numbers, transit routes, and—oddly enough—the entire IMDb trivia page for Back to the Future.
“I can tell you every actor who turned down the role of Marty McFly.”
“Hit me.”
“Johnny Depp, Ralph Macchio, and C. Thomas Howell.”
“No way Johnny Depp—”
“1984 Johnny Depp. Pre-21 Jump Street.”
I had never met someone whose brain worked like a Wikipedia page with no dead links. It was fascinating. But then, something shifted.
People Get Annoyed With Me
Ethan’s tone dropped, just a notch.
“Most people don’t like how much I talk. Or they get annoyed when I correct them.”
I shrugged. “You haven’t been wrong yet.”
He smiled, but it wasn’t just appreciation. It was relief.
And that’s when I realized—Ethan wasn’t just a human search engine. He was a guy who had spent his whole life being told to turn the volume down on the way his brain worked.
It hit me like a delayed subway announcement.
The Unwritten Social Rules
People like Ethan get punished for breaking social rules that no one bothers to explain.
Like:
- “Don’t interrupt people.” (Even if you’re just adding useful information.)
- “Read between the lines.” (Even if what was actually said contradicts the subtext.)
- “Stop fixating on one topic.” (Even if that topic is objectively more interesting than small talk.)
Imagine being told your whole life that the way your brain works is wrong. That your natural instinct to share knowledge isn’t charming—it’s exhausting.
That you should keep your best, most vibrant thoughts inside because they make people uncomfortable.
And then imagine doing it. Every. Single. Day.
The “Normal” Mask
Ethan told me something that stuck with me.
“I’ve learned how to act ‘normal’ for short periods of time. But it drains me.”
I asked him what he meant by “normal.”
He listed things like:
- Making eye contact but not too much.
- Asking people questions about themselves but not too many.
- Not correcting them even when they’re wrong.
“It’s like running a program in the background that slows everything down,” he said. “And if I do it for too long, I just shut down.”
That hit me harder than I expected. Because, let’s be honest—how many of us don’t feel like we’re running some version of that background program?
We all mask, to some degree.
The difference is, people like Ethan get penalized when their mask slips.
“I Wish People Knew…”
I asked him what he wished people understood about autism. His answer was immediate.
“I wish people knew that I’m not trying to be rude. I’m just being myself.”
Simple. Direct. No subtext. No performative softness.
And that’s when I realized how much of the world is built on pretending.
We pretend to care about things we don’t. We pretend to laugh at jokes that aren’t funny. We pretend not to be fascinated when someone knows 127 things about the New York City subway system.
And Ethan? Ethan doesn’t pretend.
He just is.
And maybe that’s why people find it so unsettling.
The Final Stop
As we pulled into Grand Central, I asked him if he ever wished his brain worked differently.
He shook his head. “No. I just wish the world worked differently.”
That stuck with me.
Because Ethan’s brain isn’t broken. It’s not something to be “fixed” or “managed.” It’s a system optimized for precision in a world addicted to vagueness.
And maybe, just maybe, it’s the world that needs to catch up.
If You’ve Ever Met an Ethan
If you’ve ever met someone who seems blunt, or hyper-focused, or socially “off”—maybe take a second before deciding they’re difficult. Maybe they’ve spent their entire life editing themselves down to something smaller just to be tolerated.
And if they finally trust you enough to be unfiltered?
Listen.
Because I promise you—there’s something in their brain you’ve never heard before.
And it just might change the way you see everything.
