𝖠𝖴𝖳𝖨𝖲𝖬 𝖠𝖭𝖣 𝖠𝖫𝖫 pt. 4 (𝖻𝗒 𝗇𝖾𝗎𝗋𝗈𝖿𝖺𝖻𝗎𝗅𝗈𝗎𝗌) 𝖉𝖎𝖘𝖈𝖑𝖆𝖎𝖒𝖊𝖗 : ᴛʜɪꜱ ɪꜱ ɴᴏ ᴡᴀʏ ᴀ ᴘʀᴏꜰᴇꜱꜱɪᴏɴᴀʟ ʀᴇᴀʟɪꜱᴛɪᴄ/ꜰᴀᴄᴛ-ʙᴀꜱᴇᴅ ᴛʀᴜᴇ ʀᴇᴘʀᴇꜱᴇɴᴛᴀᴛɪᴏɴ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇ ᴄᴏᴍᴍᴜɴɪᴛɪᴇꜱ. ᴅᴏᴇꜱ ɴᴏᴛ ᴀɪᴍ ᴛᴏ ᴘʀᴇꜱᴄʀɪʙᴇ ᴏʀ ᴘʀᴏᴍᴏᴛᴇ ᴀɴʏ ꜱᴘᴇᴄɪꜰɪᴄ ᴍᴇᴅɪᴄᴀʟ ᴛʀᴇᴀᴛᴍᴇɴᴛ. ᴘᴜʀᴇʟʏ ᴀ ꜱᴄᴇɴᴀʀɪᴏ ᴄʀᴇᴀᴛᴇᴅ ʙʏ ᴍᴇ ꜰᴏʀ ᴇɴᴛᴇʀᴛᴀɪɴᴍᴇɴᴛ ᴘᴜʀᴘᴏꜱᴇꜱ. sᥙρρort to thosᥱ ιmρᥲᥴtᥱd ᴄᴏɴᴄᴇᴩᴛ- 𝘊𝘰𝘮𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘵 𝘊𝘩𝘢𝘳𝘢𝘤𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝐑𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 ➸ 𝐏𝐆-𝟏𝟑 ᴛʜᴀɴᴋ ʏᴏᴜ🙂ʜᴀᴠᴇ ᴀ ɴɪᴄᴇ ᴅᴀʏ Karen, ever the calming presence, moves closer to Plankton, her movements slow and deliberate. She knows his triggers, his signs of distress. She whispers, "It's okay, Plankto-" But Plankton's body doesn't seem to hear. Only his arm shoots out, his hand slapping as he tries to grasp something, anything, from the bedside table. Karen's eyes dart to his hand, and she knows exactly what he wants. She reaches over in to the bedside drawer and pulls out a box of sensory needs. She gently hands him a fidget squishy before putting the sensory box back into the bedside drawer. Plankton's movements slow slightly as he compresses it in his grip. Karen knows Plankton's autism like the back of her hand. She's studied his tics, his stims, the way his body reacts to stress. It's been a silent dance between them for years, his unspoken needs met with her quiet understanding. But now, Chip's in the picture, and he's curious. Plankton squeezes the fidget squishy in his hand, his breaths coming in short gasps. Karen watches his antennae, the way they twitch with each inhale, slower with each exhale. It's a pattern she's come to recognize, a sign he's coming back to them. "It's okay," she whispers. She knows his limits. Chip watches, his eyes wide with wonder. He's never seen his dad this way before. Karen's eyes never leave Plankton's. She can read his every move, his every tic. She's his anchor. Plankton's antennae start to quiver, his voice murmurs. "Must... the... yes... it... it's all..." Chip doesn't understand what's happening, but he knows his dad's in distress. Karen's voice is a soothing balm. "Just let it pass, Plankton," she whispers, her hand steady. She's seen this before; she knows. The words continue to tumble from Plankton's mouth, disjointed and disconnected. "The... the... it... has to be... must... yes..." Karen watches with a mixture of sadness and determined calm. She's been his rock through these episodes countless times, his safe place when the world gets too loud. But now, screen sees the fear in her son's eyes, the questions he's too afraid to ask. She knows it's time to explain. Plankton's antennae stop twitching as he squeezes the fidget squishy tightly. The words come out in spurts, a jumbled mess. "The... the... it's okay," he says, his voice barely above a murmur. "Just... it's okay." Chip watches his father, his mind racing. What's happening? Why is he saying these random words? Karen's eyes never leave Plankton's, her screen filled with understanding. "It's part of his autism," she whispers to Chip. "Sometimes when he's overwhelmed, words just tumble out." Chip stares at his dad. "But what does he mean, 'the it'?" Chip asks, his voice barely above a whisper. "It's not about us, Chip," Karen says, as more nonsensical words spill out. "The... it... no... must... yes..." Karen sighs. "It doesn't always make sense," she admits. "It's just his brain trying to process everything." Chip swallows, watching his dad with a mix of curiosity and concern of his neurodivergence. Plankton's eye is glazed over. "The... it... not... can't," he whispers to himself. Karen's hand is warm against his. Chip is watching, his curiosity piqued. He's never heard his dad's voice like this, so soft, so... lost. Plankton's tongue flaps in his mouth, his brain trying to form coherent thoughts, but all that comes out are jumbled syllables. "It's okay, Plankton," Karen soothes. "You're okay." The room feels like it's spinning around him, a whirlwind of sounds and colors. Plankton's eye is unfocused, but he feels their presence. "Tck tck," he says quietly, his head bobbing slightly. Karen's hand tightens around his. "Just let it come," she whispers. "D-Dad?" Chip stammers. Plankton doesn't respond. "It's okay," Karen assures Chip. "He's just... dealing. It's like he's stuck in a loop, trying to make sense of things. And he does that with sounds, sometimes. But he'll come back to us." Karen's seen this before, the way his mouth moves, forming sounds of wording that don't quite match up. The room is a symphony of Plankton's tics, the tapestry of his neurodivergence. "Tck tck," he murmurs, his eye flickering. Chip watches. He's never seen his dad so vulnerable. "Why does he do that?" Chip whispers, his voice shaking. Karen takes a deep breath, ready to explain. "Because it helps his brain cope with the world, Chip," Karen says. "Sometimes, his brain can get overwhelmed. And these little movements, these sounds, they help him find his calm." Chip's gaze remains on his father, who's still lost in his own thoughts, oblivious to the conversation happening around him. "But why can't he just... stop?" Chip's question is innocent, but it cuts deep. Karen looks at him with patience. "It's not something he can control," she explains. "It's like his brain's way of expressing itself." Chip nods, but the questions keep coming. "Does he even know he's doing it?" he asks, his voice low. Karen shrugs. "He's aware of his tics, but sometimes they just take over." She pauses, her gaze on Plankton, who's still lost in his own world. "It's like when you get really focused on a video game, and you don't notice anything else around you." Chip thinks about it, his mind racing with questions. "But what's the point of the sounds?" he asks. "Is he... will he even know we're here?" "Sometimes he does, sweetie. Sometimes he doesn't. But it's good to be here for him." Plankton's tics subside slightly. He's coming back. "It's like a... a pressure valve," Karen tries to explain. "When his brain feels too full, the tics and sounds help to release some of that... pressure." Plankton's antennae twitch again. He's aware of them now, watching him. Karen's gaze is soft. "It's just a sound he makes, Chip. It's not for us, it's for him to release tension. He may not even know he's doing it right now, nor may he later recall what's been said or happened." Chip nods, trying to understand. Plankton's eye finally focuses on them. "What's... what's going on?" Plankton's voice is groggy. Karen smiles gently. "You had an episode," she says. "Do you remember?" Plankton's antennae droop. "I don't know," he says. Karen nods. It's not unusual for him to forget. "Chip was worried about you," she adds. Plankton looks at his son, his heart heavy. "Chip grabbed my hand, and it was too much. I'm sorry," he says, his voice barely above a whisper as he puts the fidget squishy back. "It's okay," Chip says, his voice small. "I just..." But Plankton cuts him off. "Just leave me alone!" Karen sighs. This is the part she's always feared. The moment when Chip would find out, and Plankton's fear of losing him would spike. He's always been so good at hiding his autism, but now his son has seen it in full force. Chip takes a step back, his eyes wide. "Dad?" Plankton doesn't look at him. "Please, Chip," Plankton says, his voice sharp. "Just... just go." The sting of his words is like a slap in the face. Karen sees the hurt in Chip's screen, but she knows Plankton's just trying to regain control. Karen puts a hand on Chip's shoulder. "Let's give Dad some space," she whispers. But Chip's eyes are still glued to Plankton. "But I..." he starts. "Chip," she says firmly, "now's not the time." Plankton's body is still, his antennae drooping. He looks... broken. It's a sight that makes Karen's ache, but it's one she's seen before. Chip nods reluctantly, his gaze never leaving his father's. He takes a step back, his eyes still full of questions. Karen sits beside him. She knows he doesn't mean to push Chip away, that his fear of being seen as less than has always been his greatest burden. Plankton's tic starts again, his head nodding. "Tck tck," he says. Karen knows that for Plankton, it's completely normal for him to tic like this after such seizures. Chip watches, his curiosity melding with fear. Karen sighs. "It's just his brain, Chip," she says, her voice steady. "It's his way of coping. The tics are okay, and he might continue to tic for the rest of today." Plankton sighs. "Chip, you better not blabber about this to anyone," his voice is low and gruff. Karen nods understandingly. "He won't," she says, turning to Chip. "It's our little secret." "I won't," Chip whispers, watching Plankton's bobbing head. "It's a tic, Chip," Karen explains, her voice soft. "It's like when you have to scratch an itch that just won't go away." Plankton nods, his eye still unfocused. "It's something his body does when he's trying to calm down," she adds. "There's nothing wrong with it. The tics are with his head movements and his tongue clicking, which is how he tics." Chip stares at his dad. "Why does it... why does it happen?" he asks, his voice barely a whisper. Karen's eyes are filled with sorrow. "It's part of his autism," she says, her voice gentle. "When he's stressed or anxious, his brain sends mixed signals. And his body has these... involuntary responses." She takes a deep breath. "It's like... it's like his brain's doing a little dance to keep up. It's not in his antennae, nor his limbs. Only his head and sometimes mouth tics, being the jerks and sounds. It's something involuntary." "But why can't he just... not do it?" Chip asks, as Plankton's head continues to nod, his tongue clicking against the roof of his mouth. Karen's eyes are filled with patience. "It's not that simple, Chip," she says. "These tics are like... reflexes. You can't just turn them off. It's part of it."

𝖠𝖴𝖳𝖨𝖲𝖬 𝖠𝖭𝖣 𝖠𝖫𝖫 pt. 9 (𝖻𝗒 𝗇𝖾𝗎𝗋𝗈𝖿𝖺𝖻𝗎𝗅𝗈𝗎𝗌) 𝖉𝖎𝖘𝖈𝖑𝖆𝖎𝖒𝖊𝖗 : ᴛʜɪꜱ ɪꜱ ɴᴏ ᴡᴀʏ ᴘʀᴏꜰᴇꜱꜱɪᴏɴᴀʟ ʀᴇᴀʟɪꜱᴛɪᴄ/ꜰᴀᴄᴛ-ʙᴀꜱᴇᴅ ᴛʀᴜᴇ ʀᴇᴘʀᴇꜱᴇɴᴛᴀᴛɪᴏɴ ᴏꜰ ᴄᴏᴍᴍᴜɴɪᴛɪᴇꜱ. ᴅᴏᴇꜱ ɴᴏᴛ ᴀɪᴍ ᴛᴏ ᴘʀᴇꜱᴄʀɪʙᴇ ᴏʀ ᴘʀᴏᴍᴏᴛᴇ ᴀɴʏ ꜱᴘᴇᴄɪꜰɪᴄ ᴛʀᴇᴀᴛᴍᴇɴᴛ. ᴘᴜʀᴇʟʏ ᴄʀᴇᴀᴛᴇᴅ ꜰᴏʀ ᴇɴᴛᴇʀᴛᴀɪɴᴍᴇɴᴛ. sᥙρρort to thosᥱ ιmρᥲᥴtᥱd ᴄᴏɴᴄᴇᴩᴛ- 𝘊𝘰𝘮𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘵 𝘊𝘩𝘢𝘳𝘢𝘤𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝐑𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 ➸ 𝐏𝐆-𝟏𝟑 ᴛʜᴀɴᴋ ʏᴏᴜ🙂ʜᴀᴠᴇ ᴀ ɴɪᴄᴇ ᴅᴀʏ Their laughter mingles with the breeze, the creaking of the swings a comforting rhythm. For a moment, everything feels normal, it's just them. But then two playfully boisterous kids come by. Their energy is infectious, but for Plankton, it's too much. He flinches at their sudden approach, nervously gripping the swing's chains tightly. The two kids laugh, their giggles piercing the calm of the playground. They run past, their eyes locked on the baby swing, their arms outstretched. Chip watches. The swing squeaks as the children pass it side to side to each other carelessly, when the baby swing hits Plankton, jolting him. Plankton's eye rolls back, his body going rigid. "Dad!" Chip cries, his voice echoing in the sudden silence. Karen's head snaps up, her eyes wide. Plankton's swing stops, his grip on the chains loosening. He's in the middle of an absence seizure, his brain briefly disconnecting from the world around him. Chip jumps off his swing, his knees hitting the ground with a thud. The two boisterous kids stop their laughter as Chip and Karen catch Plankton's body. "Dad?" Chip whispers, his voice shaking. Plankton's limp. "It's okay, Chip," Karen says. "Just hold him." They go to the ground, supporting Plankton's form between them. The kids hover, curiosity in their eyes. "What's wrong with him?" one asks. "He's okay," Karen says, her voice firm but gentle. "He just needs a minute." Plankton's body twitches slightly, his eyelid fluttering. "Dad?" The kids' curiosity turns to concern, their laughter replaced by quiet whispers. One of them tugs at their mother's sleeve, pointing at the scene. The mother's expression shifts from playful to worried. She approaches them cautiously. "Is he ok? Should we ca--" Karen shakes her head, cutting her off. "No thank you, but we've got it. He has autism. He'll be okay." The mother nods, her eyes softening with understanding and slowly backing away with her kids, giving them space. Plankton's body slowly unfurls, his antennae twitching back to life. Chip holds his breath. Plankton blinks, his eye coming back into focus. "Chip?" he says, his voice slurred. Karen nods. "You had a seizure, Plankton," she says. "You're okay now." Plankton's face relaxes, his antennae drooping slightly. "Tired," he murmurs. Chip's eyes never leave his dad's. "You scared me," he admits. Plankton looks at his son, his gaze filled with apology. "I-I'm s-sorry, buddy," he says. "I didn't mean t-to." Karen wraps an arm around Plankton's shoulders. "Let's sit for a bit," she suggests. They move to the bench, Plankton's legs still wobbly as the sit down on the bench. Plankton's hands start to move, almost subconsciously. He's stimming again, waving his flapping hands. Chip watches. He's seen this now. He understands now. Karen's hand rests on Plankton's back, her thumb making small circles. "It's okay, honey," she whispers. Plankton's hands flap faster in small, repetitive motions. It's his way of creating his own rhythm, his own harmony amidst the noise. Chip watches, his screen filled with a mix of fear and fascination. "It's his brain's way of saying 'I'm alright'," Karen explains, her voice low. "He's okay." Plankton's hands slow, the stimming becoming less frantic. Karen's eyes never leave his, her expression a mix of concern and understanding. "You've had a big morning," she says softly. "Ye-ye-yes," he stammers. Karen nods. Plankton's antennae droop, his hand stilling. Chip notices the quiet that settles over his dad. "You wanna go home?" he asks, his voice small. Plankton nods, his eye focused on a spot in the distance. Karen stands, helping him to his feet. "Okay, let's go," she says. The walk to the car feels longer than the journey to the playground. Chip notices the way his dad's steps are smaller, his movements more deliberate. It's as if he's retreating into himself, his brain needing a moment to recover. In the backseat, Plankton fidgets with the seat belt, strumming it as Chip sits next to him. The car's engine hums to life, Karen glancing back at them through the rearview mirror, her eyes filled with love and concern. "Talk box," Plankton says to himself. He's retreating. Chip looks confused. "Talk box?" He looks at his dad. "Dad, wh-" "Chip," Karen interjects, her eyes in the mirror. "Let him be. Remember yesterday. Sometimes he just needs to talk to himself. You can sit with him, but it can make him upset when you comment on it as if it's strange. He barely even knows he's doing it." Chip nods, trying to remember the conversation they had. Plankton's mumbling turns to a murmur, a low hum that's barely audible over the car's engine. "Fluffy, blue, circle," he says, his eye fixed on the passing scenery. The words are nonsensical, but Chip tries to keep his voice calm. "It's okay, Dad," he says. Karen glances at him in the mirror, her eyes full of pride. "He's okay," she reassures Chip. "He's just talking himself through it." Plankton's hand starts to move again, tapping the seat in a steady rhythm. "Pip," he whispers. "Flibbity, floppety, jib." Chip's eyes are glued to his father, his curiosity piqued by this window into his internal world. "Blip, blup, bebop," Plankton mumbles, his antennae twitching with each syllable. Chip's mind whirrs with questions but his mom's advice from last night echoes in his head. He watches as his dad's hand taps out the rhythm of his thoughts on the car door. "Mom, is he okay?" Chip asks, his voice low. Karen nods. "He's just working through it," she says. "It's his brain's way of talking to itself." Plankton's murmurs grow quieter as they drive, his antennae drooping slightly. Karen glances in the rearview mirror, her screen filled with warmth. "It's his brain's way of processing thoughts, turning them into words and sounds." Chip nods, his gaze never leaving Plankton's face. "It's like he's got a little world in there," he murmurs. Karen smiles. "Exactly," she says. "And those words are his way of navigating it." Plankton taps on the door. "Dibbly. Pling," he says. Karen nods. "You're safe." Plankton's hand stops tapping, his antennae still. "Safe," he echoes, his voice a whisper. Chip's eyes are wide, his curiosity piqued by his father's quiet self-talk. "It's his way of reassuring his brain," Karen explains. "It's like he's saying 'it's okay' to himself." Chip nods. Karen's screen finds Chip's. "You're doing great," she mouths. The car's movement lulls Plankton into silence. His antennae droop, his lids growing heavy. Chip notices the change, his heart aching. "Dad?" he whispers. "Tired," he says. The hum of the engine becomes a white noise, their world narrowing down to the car's confines. Plankton's breathing deepens, his body slumping slightly against the seat. Karen's eyes flick to the mirror, seeing Chip's concern. "It's okay," she says softly. "He's just getting sleepy." In his own world, Plankton whispers to himself. "Flip, flap, jibber." His eye closed, but his mind races. Chip watches, fascinated by the silent conversation. "What's he saying?" he asks Karen. She smiles, keeping her eyes on the road. "He's just talking to his stims," she says. "Talking to his stims?" Chip repeats, trying to understand. "It's like he's having a conversation," Karen explains, "but it's not with us. It's with his brain. It's his way of sorting things out." "Does he know what he's saying?" Chip asks. "Not always," Karen says, keeping her eyes on the road. "Sometimes it's just sounds, other times it's fragments of words or phrases. It's his way of finding calm in the chaos." Plankton's whispers continue, "Bloop. Squish. Karen." Chip looks at his mom. "Does he know he's saying your name?" Karen smiles. "Sometimes he does. It's his way of reassuring himself that he's not alone." Chip nods. Chip can't help but feel a sense of wonder at his dad's unique way of dealing with the world. "Blibber, babble, wonka," Plankton says, his voice softer now. Chip looks out the window, his thoughts racing. He wonders if he'll ever understand what it's like inside his dad's head. "Is he okay?" he asks again, his voice barely above a whisper. "He's fine, Chip," Karen says, her voice calm. "This is just his way." The words keep coming, a steady stream of nonsense syllables that somehow make sense to Plankton. "Flitter, flatter, snicker-snack," he murmurs. Karen's eyes are on the road, but her love is with Plankton, listening to his self-soothing symphony. She knows that in his own way, he's trying to find peace.

𝖠𝖴𝖳𝖨𝖲𝖬 𝖠𝖭𝖣 𝖠𝖫𝖫 pt. 3 (𝖻𝗒 𝗇𝖾𝗎𝗋𝗈𝖿𝖺𝖻𝗎𝗅𝗈𝗎𝗌) 𝖉𝖎𝖘𝖈𝖑𝖆𝖎𝖒𝖊𝖗 : ᴛʜɪꜱ ɪꜱ ɴᴏ ᴡᴀʏ ᴀ ᴘʀᴏꜰᴇꜱꜱɪᴏɴᴀʟ ʀᴇᴀʟɪꜱᴛɪᴄ/ꜰᴀᴄᴛ-ʙᴀꜱᴇᴅ ᴛʀᴜᴇ ʀᴇᴘʀᴇꜱᴇɴᴛᴀᴛɪᴏɴ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇ ᴄᴏᴍᴍᴜɴɪᴛɪᴇꜱ. ᴅᴏᴇꜱ ɴᴏᴛ ᴀɪᴍ ᴛᴏ ᴘʀᴇꜱᴄʀɪʙᴇ ᴏʀ ᴘʀᴏᴍᴏᴛᴇ ᴀɴʏ ꜱᴘᴇᴄɪꜰɪᴄ ᴍᴇᴅɪᴄᴀʟ ᴛʀᴇᴀᴛᴍᴇɴᴛ. ᴘᴜʀᴇʟʏ ᴀ ꜱᴄᴇɴᴀʀɪᴏ ᴄʀᴇᴀᴛᴇᴅ ʙʏ ᴍᴇ ꜰᴏʀ ᴇɴᴛᴇʀᴛᴀɪɴᴍᴇɴᴛ ᴘᴜʀᴘᴏꜱᴇꜱ. sᥙρρort to thosᥱ ιmρᥲᥴtᥱd ᴄᴏɴᴄᴇᴩᴛ- 𝘊𝘰𝘮𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘵 𝘊𝘩𝘢𝘳𝘢𝘤𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝐑𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 ➸ 𝐏𝐆-𝟏𝟑 ᴛʜᴀɴᴋ ʏᴏᴜ🙂ʜᴀᴠᴇ ᴀ ɴɪᴄᴇ ᴅᴀʏ The room feels smaller, the air heavier. Karen can see the turmoil in Plankton's eye, the fear of rejection and misunderstanding. "It's okay, Plankton," she says, squeezing his hand. "You're not alone." But Chip's eyes are filled with a mix of confusion and concern, reaching out tentatively. Plankton flinches. "Dad," Chip says, his voice small. "What's w---" "It's nothing you need to worry about!" Plankton snaps, his voice sharp. The words sting Chip, and he takes a step back. "Chip, your dad's just... tired," Karen says quickly, trying to smooth things over. But the damage is done. Plankton's always been so good at hiding his autism, but now it's out in the open. "But, Dad..." Chip starts. "I SAID, IT'S NOTHING!" Plankton's outburst echoes in the room, his antennae twitching wildly. Karen sees the fear in Chip's screen. She knows Plankton meant no harm, but the shame he feels is palpable. "It's ok, Chip," she says, trying to keep her voice steady. "Dad just needs a moment." Chip nods, his gaze flickering between his parents. He's never seen his dad like this before, so... vulnerable. He takes another step back, giving them space. Plankton's head jerks to the side again, a tic, the neurodivergence that Karen's seen often, but Chip's only just noticing it. Karen sees the fear in Chip's screen. "It's okay, Chip," she says again, her voice a lifeline. "It's just his body's way of dealing with the aftermath." Plankton's never wanted Chip to see this side of him, the side that's not so put-together. "Why does he do that?" he asks, his voice still trembling. Karen takes a deep breath, ready to explain. "It's called a tic, Chip. Sometimes people with autism have these small movements they can't control. It's just his brain's way of... releasing energy. It's like a reflex." Plankton feels exposed, raw. This isn't how he wanted his son to find out. "Dad?" Chip says, his voice tentative. Plankton's antennae stop their wild dance. "I tck tck... I'm okay," he whispers, his voice barely audible. Chip's screen filled with unshed tears, aching for his father. He doesn't understand, but he can see the pain in Plankton's eye. "You don't have to hide.." Karen's voice is a gentle caress. "It's just who your dad is, Chip. He's always been like this." Plankton nods, his gaze meeting hers. They share a silent understanding, a bond formed from years of supporting each other through his episodes. Chip looks at Plankton, his eyes searching for any resemblance of the dad he knows. But all he sees is a man with a secret he's carried alone for so long. "But wh-" "It's called 'masking'," Karen says gently. "Your dad's been doing it his whole life." The word hangs in the air, foreign yet somehow fitting. Plankton's always been so good at pretending, so adept at hiding his true self. Chip feels like he's peering into a part of his dad's soul that's always been veiled. "But why, Dad?" His voice is barely above a whisper as he reaches for his hand. Plankton's antennae quiver under the weight of his son's touch. He's never liked the feeling of anything on him, and is only comfortable with Karen's touch. The tactile sensitivity is a part of his autism that makes certain textures and sensations unbearable. Chip's grip is firm, and Plankton flinches away from him. Karen notices. She knows how much Plankton struggles with the simple act of being touched by anyone but her. But Chip grabs Plankton's hand again, unyielding. Plankton's antennae spike with discomfort, his skin crawling under the pressure. He tries to pull away, but his son's grip is tight. "Chip, it's okay," Karen soothes. "Dad's just... sensitive." But Chip's eyes are pleading. He doesn't understand, doesn't know that his simple touch can set off a sensory overload for his father. And so he holds on tighter. "Dad..." Chip starts. Plankton whimpers. Karen's seen this so many times before. How Plankton's body reacts to the slightest touch, how his skin can feel like it's on fire, his brain a whirlwind of chaos. But this time, it's Chip's hand, and it's uncharted territory. Plankton's antennae spasm, his eye squeezed shut. The room feels too hot, too loud. He tries to focus. He wants to scream, to shake his son off, but he knows he can't. Yet Chip's hand won't let go. Karen sees the panic in Plankton's eye, the way his body tenses like a coil about to spring. She places her hand over Chip's, trying to gently pry his fingers from Plankton's. "Chip, sweetie, let go," she says softly. "Your dad's just a bit... overwhelmed right now." Plankton flaps his other hand in a stim, which Chip doesn't understand. So he also grabs his other hand, too. "Dad, please talk to me," Chip begs, his voice shaking. The sensation of Chip's hands on his is unbearable, like sandpaper against skin. He wants to scream, but his voice is trapped in a body that feels like it's not his. "I... " he gasps, his eye darting. Karen's screen is filled with sorrow as she sees the panic in her husband's gaze. "Chip, let go," she says, her voice firm yet gentle. "It's okay. Your dad just needs some space." But Chip's grip tightens. "No; I won't leave you," he declares, his screen wet with tears. Plankton's unable to take anymore, but Chip's grip is to strong for him to pry away from. Plankton can't breathe, the pressure of his son's hands on him too much to bear. But Chip doesn't understand. He doesn't realize his touch is causing his dad pain. Suddenly Plankton's legs buckle onto the bed. Karen's eyes widen as she sees Plankton's distress, and she quickly takes action. "Chip, let him go!" she says more urgently, placing her hands on Chip's shoulders. Chip finally releases Plankton's hands, looking from his mother to his father with uncertainty. Plankton gasps for air, his antennae drooping as Chip finally lets go, loosening his grip on Plankton's hands. The room is quiet except for the harsh sound of Plankton's ragged breaths. Karen's seen this hundreds of times, but it never gets easier. "It's okay, Plankton," she murmurs. "You're okay, love." Plankton is a maelstrom of uncontrollable tics. His eye blinks rapidly, and Chip's never seen his dad like this.

𝖠𝖴𝖳𝖨𝖲𝖬 𝖠𝖭𝖣 𝖠𝖫𝖫 pt. 5 (𝖻𝗒 𝗇𝖾𝗎𝗋𝗈𝖿𝖺𝖻𝗎𝗅𝗈𝗎𝗌) 𝖉𝖎𝖘𝖈𝖑𝖆𝖎𝖒𝖊𝖗 : ᴛʜɪꜱ ɪꜱ ɴᴏ ᴡᴀʏ ᴀ ᴘʀᴏꜰᴇꜱꜱɪᴏɴᴀʟ ʀᴇᴀʟɪꜱᴛɪᴄ/ꜰᴀᴄᴛ-ʙᴀꜱᴇᴅ ᴛʀᴜᴇ ʀᴇᴘʀᴇꜱᴇɴᴛᴀᴛɪᴏɴ ᴏꜰ ᴄᴏᴍᴍᴜɴɪᴛɪᴇꜱ. ᴅᴏᴇꜱ ɴᴏᴛ ᴀɪᴍ ᴛᴏ ᴘʀᴇꜱᴄʀɪʙᴇ ᴏʀ ᴘʀᴏᴍᴏᴛᴇ ᴀɴʏ ꜱᴘᴇᴄɪꜰɪᴄ ᴛʀᴇᴀᴛᴍᴇɴᴛ. ᴘᴜʀᴇʟʏ ᴄʀᴇᴀᴛᴇᴅ ꜰᴏʀ ᴇɴᴛᴇʀᴛᴀɪɴᴍᴇɴᴛ. sᥙρρort to thosᥱ ιmρᥲᥴtᥱd ᴄᴏɴᴄᴇᴩᴛ- 𝘊𝘰𝘮𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘵 𝘊𝘩𝘢𝘳𝘢𝘤𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝐑𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 ➸ 𝐏𝐆-𝟏𝟑 ᴛʜᴀɴᴋ ʏᴏᴜ🙂ʜᴀᴠᴇ ᴀ ɴɪᴄᴇ ᴅᴀʏ Plankton's nods become less frequent, his tongue clicks slower. "I don't... tck tck, I don't mean to be tck tck... to be like this," he whispers. "It's okay, Dad," Chip says. "I won't tell anyone." Karen smiles sadly. "You don't have to hide it, Plankton," she says. But Plankton looks away. "I can't help it," he murmurs. Chip's never seen his dad so lost, so vulnerable. "Dad, you can tell me anyth—" "No," Plankton snaps. "It's none of your business, Chip." Karen's eyes flash with sorrow, but she remains silent. She knows Plankton's pride. The tic starts again, his head jerking slightly. "Tck tck," he murmurs. Chip watches, his eyes wet with unshed tears. He doesn't understand why his dad is pushing him away. But Karen does. She's seen it before, Plankton's fear of being seen as weak, as different. "Chip," she says gently, "it's not something he can help. It's part of his autism. Sometimes, his brain just needs to... to tic. He's aware when it happens." The room is silent except for the faint click of Plankton's tongue. "But why?" he whispers, his voice cracking. "Why does his brain need to do that?" Karen looks at him with a sad smile. "It's his brain's way of communicating, Chip. Sometimes it just needs to... move, to make sounds. It's like his way of saying, 'We're ok, Plankton, you're here'." Chip watches his dad's head nod slightly. "But it looks so... painful." Plankton's eye finally meets his. "It's not painful, Chip," he says, his voice strained. "It's tck... tck it's none of your concern." Karen's eyes are filled with concern as she looks at Plankton, who's visibly tired. She knows he's trying to regain control, to keep his walls up. "It's okay, Plankton," she says. "Chip just wants to understand." "I don't want him to think I'm... tck tck, I don't want him to think I'm weird." The desperation in his voice mirrors the erratic movements of his head. "You're not weird, Dad," Chip says, his voice firm. "You're just... different." Karen nods. "That's right, Chip. And different is not wrong, it's just part of who your dad is." "You're the best dad ever." Plankton's head nods slower now, the tic subsiding. His eye flickers as he looks at his son, his antennae drooping. "Tck, tck," he whispers. "I just tck... tck I don't want Chip to tck, tck think I'm broken." "You're not broken, Dad," he says. "You're just... special." Karen swells with pride. That's her son, trying to find the right words, trying to comfort his father. Chip's hand reaches for his dad's, but Plankton flinches. The simple touch feels like fire against his skin. "Dad," Chip says, his voice full of concern. "Please, let me he--" But Plankton can't handle it. He jerks away. "No, Chip," he says, his voice tight with anxiety. "Your touch is tck... it's too much." Chip's eyes fill with tears. He's never felt so lost, so helpless. He just wants to comfort his dad, but his dad won't let him. "But..." Karen sighs, taking Chip's hand instead. "Your dad needs some space right now," she whispers. "He gets triggered by sudden movements and sounds, and your touch can be too much." Chip nods, his eyes brimming with tears. "But why doesn't he want me to help?" he asks. Karen looks at Plankton, who's lying down with his body twitching slightly. "Because his autism makes it hard for him to communicate how he's feeling," she explains. "Sometimes, his brain gets overwhelmed, and all he can do is tic." The room is quiet, the air thick with unspoken understanding. Karen knows Plankton's pain, his fear of being seen as less than. She knows his tics are his way of navigating a world that's too loud, too bright. And she knows Chip's hurt, his need to connect with his father in the only way he knows how. But Plankton's walls are up. His antennae twitch, his body still. He's retreated into his own mind, trying to find his calm. Karen watches, aching. She's the only one who truly gets him. She's seen his tics, his moments of overwhelm, his quiet battles. And she's always been there, his rock, his sanctuary. "Tck tck," Plankton murmurs, his tongue flicking against his teeth. Chip's eyes are wide with worry. "It's his way of trying to find his balance," she whispers. "Just let him be." Plankton's tic changes, his head bobbing again. "Tck tck tck," he murmurs. Karen can see the storm brewing in his eye, the internal struggle. "It's okay, Plankton," she whispers. "You're safe. Just let it out," she soothes. "It's okay." Chip watches, curiosity piqued. "What are those sounds, Mom?" he asks. Karen's eyes never leave Plankton's. "It's his brain's way of releasing pressure," she says. "Like when you hiccough, it just happens." "But why doesn't he say actual words?" Chip's question is filled with innocence, his mind trying to piece together the puzzle of his father's condition. "Sometimes, Chip, our brains can't find the right words, so it makes sounds instead," Karen explains. "It's like when you hum a tune without knowing why, it's just something that happens. It's his brain's way of talking without words," she says. "It's his autism." Plankton looks at the blanket and rubs his hand over it. Karen knows he's listening. Karen nods. "It's his way of saying he's okay," she says, her voice calm. "It's his brain's shorthand." Plankton's tics continue, his head bobbing, his antennae twitching. "Tck tck tck," he murmurs, his voice barely audible. Karen smiles sadly. "It's okay, Plankton," she whispers. "You don't have to explain." Plankton's body relaxes slightly. The tic subsides, his head still. He looks at Karen, his antennae drooping. "Thank y-you," he says, his voice filled with relief. The room is quiet, except for the soft click of his tongue. "It's... it's just..." he starts, his voice trailing off. Karen nods. "I know," she says. "It's your brain's way of talking to you." Plankton nods, somewhat absent mindedly. "It's like when you're trying to think of a word," Karen says, "but all that comes out is 'uh' or 'um'." Chip nods. Plankton's antennae twitch, his body still. "But these sounds," Chip says, "what do they mean?" Karen looks at Plankton, who's lost in his own world again. "They're just sounds," she says, her voice soft. "Like when you tap your foot to the beat of a song. It's his brain's way of keeping rhythm." "Tck tck tck," Plankton says, his voice a quiet murmur. Karen nods. "It's his brain's way of saying, 'I'm okay, Plankton.'" Chip's eyes widen. "But... why doesn't he just say it?" Karen's smile is sad. "Because his brain doesn't always work the same way ours does," she explains. "The sounds are his brain's language, his way of talking to itself." "But what about the... the random words?" Chip asks. Karen looks at Plankton, his antennae twitching slightly. "Those are called 'echolalia' and 'palilalia'," she says. "It's when he repeats words or phrases. Sometimes, it's to help him process what's happening. Other times, it's just his brain's way of filling the silence." Plankton's head nods slightly. Karen smiles. "Sometimes, it's just his brain playing back a something he's heard," she says. "Other times, it's like he's trying to find the right words, but they just don't come out right." Plankton's eye flickers. "Tck tck, yes, yes," he murmurs. Chip looks at his mom, his heart racing. "Does he know what he's saying?" he asks. Karen shrugs. "He's aware of it, Chip. It's just his way of... coping." The sounds change, morphing into a gentle hum. "Mmm mm," he stims. Chip looks at his dad, his eyes full of questions. "What's he doing now?" he asks. Karen smiles gently. "Sometimes, he'll make sounds that aren't words," she says. "It's his brain's way of soothing itself. Some call it 'stimming'," she explains. "It's a way for autistic people to find comfort, to self-soothe." Chip nods, his eyes on his dad. "Mm mm," Plankton whispers. Karen's hand finds Plankton's, giving it a gentle squeeze. "It's his way of saying, 'I'm ok, I'm here,'" she whispers. "It's his brain's way of letting him know he's safe." "Does everyone with autism do this?" Chip asks. Karen shakes her head. "No, sweetie," she says. "Everyone's autism is different." Plankton's humming turns into a soft, rhythmic "bub bub." Karen's smile widens. "It's like his brain's version of a lullaby," she says. Chip nods, his curiosity outweighing his fear. "But why does it change?" he asks. "Sometimes his brain needs different sounds to find its calm," Karen explains. "It's like how you might prefer one song over another when you're sad or upset. His brain is just choosing what it needs in the moment." Chip watches, his eyes glued to his dad's. "It's like he's talking to himself," Chip murmurs. Karen nods. "In a way, he is," she says. "He's reassuring himself that he's okay."

𝖠𝖴𝖳𝖨𝖲𝖬 𝖠𝖭𝖣 𝖠𝖫𝖫 pt. 6 (𝖻𝗒 𝗇𝖾𝗎𝗋𝗈𝖿𝖺𝖻𝗎𝗅𝗈𝗎𝗌) 𝖉𝖎𝖘𝖈𝖑𝖆𝖎𝖒𝖊𝖗 : ᴛʜɪꜱ ɪꜱ ɴᴏ ᴡᴀʏ ᴀ ᴘʀᴏꜰᴇꜱꜱɪᴏɴᴀʟ ʀᴇᴀʟɪꜱᴛɪᴄ/ꜰᴀᴄᴛ-ʙᴀꜱᴇᴅ ᴛʀᴜᴇ ʀᴇᴘʀᴇꜱᴇɴᴛᴀᴛɪᴏɴ ᴏꜰ ᴄᴏᴍᴍᴜɴɪᴛɪᴇꜱ. ᴅᴏᴇꜱ ɴᴏᴛ ᴀɪᴍ ᴛᴏ ᴘʀᴇꜱᴄʀɪʙᴇ ᴏʀ ᴘʀᴏᴍᴏᴛᴇ ᴀɴʏ ꜱᴘᴇᴄɪꜰɪᴄ ᴛʀᴇᴀᴛᴍᴇɴᴛ. ᴘᴜʀᴇʟʏ ᴄʀᴇᴀᴛᴇᴅ ꜰᴏʀ ᴇɴᴛᴇʀᴛᴀɪɴᴍᴇɴᴛ. sᥙρρort to thosᥱ ιmρᥲᥴtᥱd ᴄᴏɴᴄᴇᴩᴛ- 𝘊𝘰𝘮𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘵 𝘊𝘩𝘢𝘳𝘢𝘤𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝐑𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 ➸ 𝐏𝐆-𝟏𝟑 ᴛʜᴀɴᴋ ʏᴏᴜ🙂ʜᴀᴠᴇ ᴀ ɴɪᴄᴇ ᴅᴀʏ The sounds Plankton makes shift again. "Skrink, skrink." Karen's eyes light up with understanding. "It's his brain's new way of saying 'I'm okay'," she whispers. "It's a 'stim'." Chip looks at his dad, his curiosity piqued. Plankton's antennae wriggle, his eye glazed over. "Skrink, skrink, skrink." The sounds are soothing, almost hypnotic. "It's like he's playing a tune," Chip murmurs. Karen nods. "In a way, he is," she says. "It's his brain's symphony." The room is bathed in the glow of Plankton's stims, his autism's unique melody. "Dad?" Chip asks tentatively, his voice a whisper. Plankton's head tilts slightly, his antennae still. "Skrink skrink skrink," he repeats. It's like he's in a trance, lost in a world only he understands. Plankton's eye flickers. "It's okay, Plankton," Karen whispers. "You can keep making your sounds." And then it happens. Plankton's voice shifts, echoing Karen's words. "It's okay, Plankton," he murmurs. Chip looks at his mom, his eyes wide. "Is he... is he okay?" Karen nods. "It's his way of processing," she says. "It's called 'echolalia'." Chip nods, his gaze never leaving his father's. "It's when his brain mimics the words he hears to make sense of them," she explains. "It's like when you repeat something until it feels right." Plankton's antennae twitch in time with his echoes. "It's okay, Plankton," he says, his voice a mirror of Karen's soothing tone. Chip smiles. "It's okay, Plankton," he repeats, trying to enforce his dad's calm. But Plankton thinks Chip's making fun of him. His antennae shoot straight up, his eye wide with hurt anger at Chip. "It's not a game, Chip!" Plankton snaps. "It's not something to tck tck... to mock!" Karen sighs, knowing this conversation needs to be handled with care. "Sorry, Dad," Chip says, his voice shaking. "I just... I thought it would he-" "It's not for you to think about!" Plankton cuts him off. Karen puts a hand on Chip's shoulder, her gaze on Plankton. "Chip didn't mean anything by it," she says calmly. "He just wants to understand and connect." She turns to Chip, her screen filled with compassion. "I know it's hard to see Dad like this," she says. "But remember, his autism is part of him, and we need to respect it. He doesn't like it when you mimic his sounds like that." Chip nods, feeling a wave of guilt. "I'm sorry, Dad," he whispers. Plankton's antennae droop slightly, but he doesn't look at Chip. "It's okay," Karen says, her voice soothing. "We're all learning here." Plankton's hand starts to move again, tracing patterns on the blanket. Karen watches. "It's his 'stimming', Chip," she says. "It's his way of self-soothing, and these movements and sounds help him to cope." Chip nods, his eyes still wet. "But why did he get so mad when I do it?" he asks. Karen sighs. "Because it's his own personal language, his way of understanding the world," she explains. "When you address it, he feels like you're invading his space, like you're not taking his feelings seriously. It's something his brain does for himself only." Karen smiles gently. "It's okay, Plankton," she whispers. "Chip's just trying to understand everything. You can keep making your sounds." Chip wants to help, but he doesn't know how. "Just let him be, Chip," Karen says, her voice soothing. Plankton shifts again, his eye teary. "It's okay, Plankton," he murmurs, echoing Karen's words from earlier. Chip clenches. He didn't mean to upset him, seeing his dad's eye welling up with tears. Karen's hand finds Plankton's, squeezing it gently. "It's okay, Plankton," she says. "You don't have to hide it from us." Plankton's tears spill over, tracing a silent river down his cheek. Karen's eyes never leave his. "You don't have to hide, Plankton," she whispers. "We're here for you." Chip watches. He doesn't know what to do, his mind racing. "Mom," he says, his voice shaking, "What can I do?" Karen turns to him, her expression gentle. "Just be here," she says. "Just listen and learn." Plankton's tears stream down. "It's okay, Plankton," he hears his wife say again. The words echo in his mind, a comforting mantra. "It's okay, Plankton," Plankton murmurs, trying to mimic her tone. But it sounds forced, wrong. He swallows hard. "That's right, Plankton," Karen says, smiling. "You're okay. You're safe, Plankton," she repeats. "You're here with us." Chip watches his dad, his heart breaking. "Mom, why is he...?" Karen's eyes are filled with pain. "It's his way of telling us he's okay," she says. "He's using my words because right now, his brain can't find his own." Chip nods, his eyes on his father. Plankton's hand is still moving, tracing the patterns on the blanket. "It's okay, Dad," Chip whispers. Plankton's crying intensifies, his tics becoming more pronounced. "Tck tck tck," he murmurs, his antennae flailing. Karen reaches for him, but he flinches away. "It's okay, Plankton," she says, her voice calm. "We're here." Chip watches, his own screen wet with tears. He's never seen his dad like this before. He feels like an outsider in a conversation he's always been a part of. "You don't have to hide your tears," Karen whispers to Plankton. "We're a family." Plankton's sobs become louder, his tics more pronounced. "Tck tck tck," he says, his body convulsing slightly. Karen's hand is firm but gentle on his back, offering silent support. "It's okay," she murmurs. "Let it out." Chip watches. "Why is he...?" his voice trails off. Karen looks at him, her screen full of love. "It's his way of saying he's overwhelmed, Chip," she whispers. "When he repeats my words, it's his brain trying to find the comfort it needs." Plankton's cries become louder, his tics more erratic. "Tck tck tck," he sobs, his body shaking. Chip feels helpless, his mind racing. He wants to make it stop, but he doesn't know how. "Just be here, buddy," Karen says, her voice calm. "Sometimes, that's all he needs." Plankton's tics morph into full-body shudders, his cries now muffled by the blanket. "It's okay, Plankton," Karen whispers, her hand still rubbing his back. "We're with you." Chip watches as his father's sobs echo in the room, each one a heartbreaking testament to the weight he carries. "You're not alone," he whispers, his voice tiny in the face of Plankton's distress. The words tumble from Plankton's mouth, a mix of Karen's soothing tones and his own raw pain. "It's o-okay, P-Plankton," he repeats, his voice broken. "It's o-okay." Karen's eyes well up too, but she remains steadfast. She's seen this before. "Tck tck tck," Plankton says, his body convulsing with each sob. "You don't have t-to tck tck hide it-t." Karen nods, her thumb brushing away a tear. "It's okay," she whispers. "We love you just as you are." Plankton's sobs turn into hiccups, his antennae twitching. "It's okay, Plankton," he says, his voice mimicking hers. Karen's hand moves in gentle circles on Plankton's back, her eyes never leaving his. "It's okay, Plankton," Karen says. "You're safe here." Plankton's sobs subside slightly. Karen nods. "That's right," she whispers. "Your sounds, your tics, they're part of you." Chip watches. He's never seen his dad so vulnerable. "But... but why?" he asks. Karen takes a deep breath. "His autism, Chip," she says. "It's like his brain has its own language, and when he's overwhelmed, it comes out." Plankton's tics become less erratic, his breathing even. "It's okay, Dad," Chip says, his voice trembling. "You're not alone." Karen smiles sadly. "He knows that, Chip," she says. "But sometimes, his brain just needs to speak its own words." Plankton's eye meets his wife's, the panic receding slightly as Chip watches.

𝖠𝖴𝖳𝖨𝖲𝖬 𝖠𝖭𝖣 𝖠𝖫𝖫 pt. 8 (𝖻𝗒 𝗇𝖾𝗎𝗋𝗈𝖿𝖺𝖻𝗎𝗅𝗈𝗎𝗌) 𝖉𝖎𝖘𝖈𝖑𝖆𝖎𝖒𝖊𝖗 : ᴛʜɪꜱ ɪꜱ ɴᴏ ᴡᴀʏ ᴘʀᴏꜰᴇꜱꜱɪᴏɴᴀʟ ʀᴇᴀʟɪꜱᴛɪᴄ/ꜰᴀᴄᴛ-ʙᴀꜱᴇᴅ ᴛʀᴜᴇ ʀᴇᴘʀᴇꜱᴇɴᴛᴀᴛɪᴏɴ ᴏꜰ ᴄᴏᴍᴍᴜɴɪᴛɪᴇꜱ. ᴅᴏᴇꜱ ɴᴏᴛ ᴀɪᴍ ᴛᴏ ᴘʀᴇꜱᴄʀɪʙᴇ ᴏʀ ᴘʀᴏᴍᴏᴛᴇ ᴀɴʏ ꜱᴘᴇᴄɪꜰɪᴄ ᴛʀᴇᴀᴛᴍᴇɴᴛ. ᴘᴜʀᴇʟʏ ᴄʀᴇᴀᴛᴇᴅ ꜰᴏʀ ᴇɴᴛᴇʀᴛᴀɪɴᴍᴇɴᴛ. sᥙρρort to thosᥱ ιmρᥲᥴtᥱd ᴄᴏɴᴄᴇᴩᴛ- 𝘊𝘰𝘮𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘵 𝘊𝘩𝘢𝘳𝘢𝘤𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝐑𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 ➸ 𝐏𝐆-𝟏𝟑 ᴛʜᴀɴᴋ ʏᴏᴜ🙂ʜᴀᴠᴇ ᴀ ɴɪᴄᴇ ᴅᴀʏ The next morning, Chip goes back into his parent's bedroom to check on them, especially his dad. The room is filled with the soft glow of early morning light, Karen is already waking up. Plankton's sleeping, his snores a gentle reminder of his presence. Chip's eyes find his dad's hand, still twitching slightly under the covers. Karen notices him watching and sits up, stretching. "Morning," she says. "How did you sleep?" Chip shrugs. "I kept thinking about Dad," he admits. Karen nods, her eyes knowing. "It can be tough seeing someone you love go through that," she says. Plankton stirs, his antennae twitching slightly. "It's his way of dreaming," she whispers. Karen stands and walks over to Plankton's side of the bed, her hand on his shoulder. "Hey, Plankton," she says gently. "It's morning." Plankton's eye opens, blinking slowly. "Nngh," he murmurs. "You okay?" Karen asks. Plankton's antennae twitch once, twice, but no more tics follow. He nods, his body still. "Tired," he says, his voice groggy. Karen smiles. "That's okay," she says. "You had a big night." Chip watches from the doorway, his eyes on his dad. Karen helps Plankton sit up, his body moving with the sluggishness of someone just woken from a deep sleep. "Chip's here," she says, nodding towards the doorway. Plankton's antennae perk up, his eye searching for his son. "Hey buddy," he says, his voice still thick with sleep. Chip steps into the room, but now, Plankton seems so... normal. "Hi, Dad," he says, his voice tentative. Plankton smiles, though it looks forced. "You ok?" Chip asks. "Tired," Plankton says, his voice still a little slurred. "But okay." Karen watches, relief etched in her eyes. "Sleep helped," she murmurs. Plankton nods. "Yeah," he says. "I'm okay." Chip's eyes are fixed on his dad, still for the first time since the night before. He sees the worry in Plankton's gaze, the way his antennae droop slightly. "I didn't mean to make you upset," Chip says, his voice barely above a whisper. Karen nods. "But it's important to understand that his tics are personal," she adds gently. "They're his way of coping, and mimicking them can make him feel self-conscious." Plankton's eye meets Chip's, his gaze filled with a mix of exhaustion and embarrassment. "It's okay, Dad," Chip says, his voice earnest. "I just want to know how to help." Karen's hand rests on Plankton's back. "You don't have to explain," she says gently. "But maybe you'd like to tell Chip a little about what happened?" Plankton sighs, his antennae drooping. He looks at Chip, his gaze uncertain. "It's okay," Chip says, his voice soft. "I just want to understand." Plankton's antennae twitch, his eye searching his wife's screen for guidance. Karen nods encouragingly. "Sometimes," Plankton begins, his voice raspy, "my brain gets too... much." He says. "Too much what?" Chip asks, his curiosity piqued despite his fear. "Too much everything," Plankton murmurs. His voice trails off, his hand absently playing with the blanket. Karen nods, understanding flickering in her gaze. "It's like his brain's got too many tabs open," she says, her voice gentle. "It needs a break to refresh." She looks at Chip, then back at Plankton. "How about we go drive to that new park across town today?" she suggests. Chip's eyes light up. "The one with a playground and the swings?" Karen smiles. "That's the one." She knew Plankton enjoys swinging. They pile into the car with anticipation. Chip buckles his seatbelt, his gaze flicking in between his parents. Karen starts the car. Plankton sits in the passenger seat. Karen's eyes meet his in the rearview mirror. "You okay, hon?" she asks. Plankton nods, his antennae still. The car's engine purrs to life, and they pull out of the driveway. Karen's hand rests on the gear stick, her grip firm but gentle. The road unfolds before them, a promise of a new day. Chip watches the world go by, his thoughts racing. He glances at Plankton, his antennae still. "You sure you're okay, Dad?" he asks. Plankton nods, his eye flicking to the rearview mirror. "Yea," he murmurs, but there's a small smile playing on his lips. "I'm okay." As they finally pull into the parking lot of the new park, Chip sees the playground materialize through the window. "Look, Dad," he says, his voice filled with excitement. Plankton's antennae twitch slightly, his eye lighting up, his face breaking into a smile. Karen helps Plankton out of the car, her hand steady on his arm. The park is alive with the chatter of children and the distant laughter of parents. Chip runs ahead, the promise of swings and slides too much to resist. The playground looms ahead, a metal and plastic oasis of joy. Chip's heart thumps with excitement. "Look, Dad," he says, pointing at the swings. Plankton's smile widens, his antennae perking up. "Yeah," he says, his voice a little stronger. "Let's go!" They make their way over, the gravel crunching underfoot. Plankton sits on the swing, his legs dangling as he sways forward and back. Chip joins his dad. Chip watches, his eyes full of wonder. This is his dad, his hero, in a moment of pure joy, and it's beautiful. This is the father he always knew. Karen sits on the bench. Plankton starts to pump his legs, his eye focused on the horizon, his tics absent. Chip also swings by him on the other swing.

𝖠𝖴𝖳𝖨𝖲𝖬 𝖠𝖭𝖣 𝖠𝖫𝖫 pt. 7 (𝖻𝗒 𝗇𝖾𝗎𝗋𝗈𝖿𝖺𝖻𝗎𝗅𝗈𝗎𝗌) 𝖉𝖎𝖘𝖈𝖑𝖆𝖎𝖒𝖊𝖗 : ᴛʜɪꜱ ɪꜱ ɴᴏ ᴡᴀʏ ᴘʀᴏꜰᴇꜱꜱɪᴏɴᴀʟ ʀᴇᴀʟɪꜱᴛɪᴄ/ꜰᴀᴄᴛ-ʙᴀꜱᴇᴅ ᴛʀᴜᴇ ʀᴇᴘʀᴇꜱᴇɴᴛᴀᴛɪᴏɴ ᴏꜰ ᴄᴏᴍᴍᴜɴɪᴛɪᴇꜱ. ᴅᴏᴇꜱ ɴᴏᴛ ᴀɪᴍ ᴛᴏ ᴘʀᴇꜱᴄʀɪʙᴇ ᴏʀ ᴘʀᴏᴍᴏᴛᴇ ᴀɴʏ ꜱᴘᴇᴄɪꜰɪᴄ ᴛʀᴇᴀᴛᴍᴇɴᴛ. ᴘᴜʀᴇʟʏ ᴄʀᴇᴀᴛᴇᴅ ꜰᴏʀ ᴇɴᴛᴇʀᴛᴀɪɴᴍᴇɴᴛ. sᥙρρort to thosᥱ ιmρᥲᥴtᥱd ᴄᴏɴᴄᴇᴩᴛ- 𝘊𝘰𝘮𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘵 𝘊𝘩𝘢𝘳𝘢𝘤𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝐑𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 ➸ 𝐏𝐆-𝟏𝟑 ᴛʜᴀɴᴋ ʏᴏᴜ🙂ʜᴀᴠᴇ ᴀ ɴɪᴄᴇ ᴅᴀʏ Suddenly, Plankton's mumbling becomes a torrent of unorganized wording. "Bubbles, bubbles, bubbles," he repeats, his voice rising and falling in an erratic pattern. Karen's grip on his hand tightens. "It's okay, Plankton," she whispers. "You're just talking to yourself." Chip's eyes widen in concern. "What's happening, Mom?" Karen's voice is calm. "It's his brain's way of processing stress," she says. "He's trying to find his calm." Plankton's body relaxes slightly, his tics slowing. "Bubbles, bubbles," Plankton murmurs, his eye flicking around the room. "Karen, Karen Plankton, Karen, Chip, tck tck tck." The words roll off his tongue like a wave, crashing against the silence. Karen nods. "It's his brain's way of categorizing," she says. "It's how he makes sense of the world." Chip's eyes are wide as he listens to the strange litany. "But why now?" he asks, his voice barely above a whisper. Karen sighs. "Sometimes, stress brings out his 'stims' more," she explains. "And seeing him upset can be overwhelming for his brain." Plankton's antennae twitch erratically. "It's okay, Plankton," Karen whispers. "We're still here." Chip looks at his mom, his eyes brimming with unshed tears. "It's okay, buddy," she says, her voice soothing. "Just let him be." Chip nods. Plankton's phrases shift again, now a jumble of nonsensical sounds and words. "Karen, Karen, bubbles, Chip, bubbles, tck tck tck." His body rocks slightly back and forth, his hand flapping against the blanket. "It's like he's trying to organize his thoughts," Karen says, her voice calm. "It's a form of self-regulation." Chip nods, trying to understand. "But it's so... random," he says. Karen smiles gently. "Karen, bubbles, tck tck, Chip, okay, okay." Plankton's eye darts around the room, as if searching for something he can't quite see. Karen's hand is steady on his shoulder. "It's okay," she repeats, her voice a soft lullaby. "You're safe." "Mom, what's he saying?" Chip whispers. Karen's eyes are filled with compassion. "He's just talking to himself," she explains. "It's his brain's way of sorting things out." Plankton's phrases change again. "Mo-mo number one, says I say, dun?" Karen's smile is sad. "It's his way of asking for reassurance," she says. "His brain's trying to make sense of the world." Chip nods, his mind racing to keep up with the changing words. "It's okay, Dad," he whispers, his voice trembling. "You're the best dad ever." Plankton's shakes ease slightly, his antennae still. Chip nods, trying to keep his voice steady. "It's okay, Dad," he says. "We're all here for you." Plankton's antennae twitch, his eye focusing on his son. "Bath," he says, his voice a mix of comfort and exhaustion. Karen nods. "He's just trying to find his words," she says. "It's part of his process." Plankton's hand stops moving, his antennae still. "Shs-shs-shs," he whispers. "Bb-bebe, hads." Chip's screen dart to Karen's. "What's he saying?" he whispers. Karen's expression is one of deep understanding. "It's a way of being kinda in his own little bubble," she explains. "His brain's way of interacting as he's in his own world, like daydreaming almost, but not necessarily thinking of any thing in particular. Like when you don't pay attention in class." Plankton's phrases change again, now a mix of words and sounds. "Wrap, tie knot, let, shwish shwish," he murmurs. Karen nods gently. "It's like his brain's doing a little dance," she says, "just to keep itself comfortable." Chip watches as his dad. "Can dad hear us right now?" he asks, his voice small. "Yes, he can," Karen says. "He's just focusing on verbally stimming." Plankton's phrases evolve. "Fwip fwip, splash, splash, oh so quiet, splish splash." Chip's eyes follow the patterns his dad's hand makes on the blanket. "It's okay, Plankton," Karen whispers. "You don't have to hide your sounds." Plankton's eye flutters slightly. Karen smiles at Chip. "It's his brain's way of creating a safe space," she says. "He's talking to his 'stims'. But I think he's getting tired, as sensory bombardment can take it's toll." The stimming came again. "Fweee." Karen's eyes never leave Plankton's. "It's ok, honey," she says, her voice steady. Plankton's antennae droop exhausted. "Tck tck tck, tck t---" "Do you need to sleep, Plankton?" Karen asks, her voice a gentle caress in the quiet room. Plankton's eye flits to her, then back to his patterns on the blanket. "It's okay if you do," she says, her tone soothing. "Sleep can help reset your brain. It's late." Plankton's stimming pauses, his body still. "Sleep," he murmurs. The word hangs in the air, a question wrapped in a sigh. "Yes," Karen nods. "Sleep." Karen stands, her movements slow and deliberate. "Let's get you comfy, Plankton," she says. He crawls under the blanket covers, now facing his pillow. Chip watches, his eyes full of uncertainty. "Does he always do this?" he asks. Karen shakes her head, her voice low. "Sometimes, when his brain's had too much, it just needs to reset." She tucks Plankton in, her movements careful and precise. "It's like his brain's battery is running low, and sleep is how it recharges." Plankton's body relaxes slightly as Karen's voice lulls him. "K-Karen," he whispers, his antennae slowly drooping. "It's okay, Plankton," she says. "You can go to sleep." The room is filled with a tension that only Chip seems to feel. "Sleep," Plankton echoes, his voice fading. "Sleep." Chip watches his dad, his heart heavy with the weight of understanding. He's never seen his hero so vulnerable. "Mom," he whispers, "What if I do something that makes it worse?" Karen turns to him, her eyes full of love. "You won't," she says. "But if you're ever unsure, just ask me or him. We're in this together. Now, you get some rest yourself; we'll need it after such a day. Tomorrow we can see if he's back to usual and go from there. Goodnight, Chip.."