They described themselves as outgoing, a term he heard frequently. "Very outgoing," some said, perhaps to distinguish themselves from the rest. He figured there was something appealing to it. Was it a more prized quality? A more desirable one?
He wanted to introduce himself as ingoing, instead, and he wondered how it would play out. He'd say it proudly. They'd think he was joking, but he wouldn't participate in the laughter. He'd smile and wait for them to understand that he meant it.
Would they think less of him afterwards? Would they pity him? Or would his confession be as celebrated as any other?
No matter the answer to his questions, he knew that he -- for one -- would cherish knowing that there were others like him, that there were ingoers and outgoers and everything in between.
There are prized ways of being, he mused, that we never hear about.
