Box Emojis & Text

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𝖠𝖴𝖳𝖨𝖲𝖬 𝖠𝖭𝖣 𝖠𝖫𝖫 pt. 19 (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 Plankton turns away from his son. Chip's screen shows his determination. "I'll stay here," he says. "As long as it takes." He sits down. But he's not giving up. "I know you're mad," he says, his voice gentle. "And I know you're hurt. But I'm not going anywhere." Still no response. Plankton's antennae twitch every now and then, but he doesn't say a word. Chip's heart feels like it's being squeezed in a vice, but he doesn't move. "Dad, remember the time we built that sandcastle together?" he asks, his voice soft. "You laughed so hard when it collapsed." His screen flickers with the memory of Plankton's joy, his antennae waving in delight. "You were so proud of me, even though it was just a pile of sand." He pauses, his throat tight when Plankton looks away. "I want to make you laugh like that again. And I'll do everything to make it right." But Plankton's silence is a reminder of the distance between them. Chip's voice cracks as he continues. "I know I don't get it all," he admits. "But I'm trying. I'll keep trying. I'll never stop." The room seems to hold its breath, the only sound the distant hum of the air conditioner. He reaches out, his hand trembling, and places the headphones on Plankton's desk. "Whenever you're ready," he says, his voice barely a whisper. "They're for you." He stands there, his screen reflecting his hope, his fear. He waits, every second an eternity. Plankton doesn't move, his back a wall of silence. Chip's heart is a drum, pounding with desperation. But he doesn't leave. He sits down on the bed. "Dad," he says, his voice steady, "I know you're upset. And you have every right to be. But I'm not going anywhere." His screens flicker with hope and fear. "I'm your son, and I love you." Plankton's antennae twitch, but he says nothing. Chip's heart feels like it's breaking. He tries to think of anything else to say, anything to break the silence. But the words stick in his throat, like glue. He sits there for what feels like hours, the weight of his father's pain pressing down on his shoulders. Plankton's ignorance is like a fog, thick and impenetrable. Chip's screens flicker with memories of their shared past, the laughs, the tears, the moments that seemed unbreakable. He whispers again, his voice barely a breath. "Dad, I'm so sorry." The words hang in the air, a silent prayer for forgiveness. Plankton's antennae don't move. Chip's screen is a maelstrom of emotions. He can't believe his father would cut him off like this. But he knows Plankton's pain is deep, and his own understanding of autism still has so much room to grow. He sits in silence, watching his father's back, willing him to turn around. "I know I hurt you," Chip says, his voice a whisper. "But I'm here to listen, to learn." Plankton's antennae twitch slightly, but he doesn't move. Chip's heart feels like it's shriveling in his chest. "Can you tell me what I can do?" he asks, his screen flickering with hope. "Please?" The minutes drag on, each one a silent accusation. Chip's mind races, searching for the right words, the right gesture to mend the rift. He knows Plankton's anger is a shield, a way to keep the world at bay. But he's desperate to reach the tender heart beneath. "I won't let you go. We're family." Plankton's antennae twitch, his body tense. Chip can feel the energy in the room shift, but he doesn't dare move. "Dad, I know I hurt you," he says, his voice shaking. "But I'm here now. I'm listening." The silence stretches on, a tightrope he's afraid to cross. The room is a prison of unspoken words, each moment stretching into an eternity. Chip's screens are a kaleidoscope of regret and longing. "Please," he whispers. "Tell me what I can do." Plankton's antennae droop, but he turns away. Chip's screen flickers with desperation. "Dad, I'm sorry," he repeats, his voice a fractured echo. "But I can't fix this if you don't let me in." Plankton's antennae quiver, a silent response to his son's plea. Chip's eyes are a pool of unshed tears, his heart racing. "I know you're in there," he says, his voice shaking. "And I know you're hurting." The room is a testament to their struggle, the air charged with the electricity of unspoken words. Chip's screens dim, his hope fading. He's tried everything, spoken every apology, offered every gesture. But Plankton's back remains a wall, unyielding to his son's pain. "Dad," he whispers, his voice barely audible. "I need you." The words hang in the air, desperate for a response. The silence is a symphony of unspoken anger and regret. Chip's screens flicker with the realization that understanding autism isn't a quick fix. It's a journey of patience, of learning to read the subtle cues that make up Plankton's communication. He sighs, his shoulders slumped. "I'll be here," he says, his voice resigned. "Whenever you're ready." But Plankton doesn't speak. The room is a testament to their strained relationship, the torn photos and crumpled cards a stark reminder of what's been lost. Chip's heart heavily, his mind racing with thoughts of how he can bridge this gap. "Dad," he says, his voice small. "I'm going to give you space. But I'm not going to give up on us." He turns to leave, his screen flickering with sadness. As he steps into the hallway, the door clicks shut behind him, a silent echo of Plankton's rejection. Chip leans against the wall, his screen a canvas of swirling emotions. He's hurt, confused, but most of all, he's determined. He'll show Dad that he's not just a kid playing at empathy. He'll prove it. He starts with the house, replacing the torn photos, smoothing out the cards. Each action a silent apology, a promise to do better. He fills a new sensory box. He'll try. Chip's screens pulse with his newfound resolve. He'll make this right. He'll show Dad that he's not just words. That he's action. That he's here, truly here. He'll be the bridge between them. He gathers supplies, a box of textures, a rainbow of fidgets, things that sparkle, things that roll, things that make sounds. He remembers Dad's favorites: the squishy balls, the smooth stones, the spinners that twirl. He adds a few new things too, things he read about that might help, like a weighted blanket, soft and comforting. He gets some of his old toys, the ones Dad used to play with him, now a bridge to a different kind of play. The room is quiet, his heart a symphony of hope. He arranges everything carefully, each item a stepping stone to repair. He thinks about the articles, the videos he's watched, the stories he's read. He tries to see the world through his dad's eye. The box is a treasure trove, a sanctuary for Plankton's sensory needs. Chip's fingers shake as he places each item with care, his mind racing with thoughts of Plankton's smile, his laugh. He knows it won't fix everything, but it's a start.

𝖠𝖴𝖳𝖨𝖲𝖬 𝖠𝖭𝖣 𝖠𝖫𝖫 pt. 20 (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 He opens the door, his screen a canvas of hope and fear. Plankton's back is still turned, his antennae still drooping. "Dad," Chip whispers, his voice shaking. "I made you a new sensory box." He holds it out, an offering, his heart in his throat. Plankton's antennae twitch, but he doesn't turn around. Chip's screen flickers with uncertainty. "It's got all your favorites," he says, his voice trembling. "And some new stuff." He takes a step forward, his hand shaking. "I want to help." Plankton's body remains still, his antennae drooping. Chip's heart feels like it's been shattered into a million pieces. But he holds out the box, his hand steady. "I know I don't get it all," he says, his voice soft. "But I'm trying." He watches as Plankton's antennas twitch, a small sign of life in the sea of silence. He takes a deep breath. "This is for you," he says, his voice a whisper. "Whenever you need it." He places the box on the bed, close to Plankton. "Whenever you're ready." When Chip leaves the room, Plankton takes a look in the new box. He's not ready to forgive, but the gesture isn't lost on him. His antennae twitch with a mix of anger and appreciation. The box is a treasure trove of sensory comforts, a silent apology wrapped in care. He picks up a squishy ball, squeezes it, feels its calming give. He turns to face the door, his eye on the empty space where Chip was just moments ago. The weight of their words, their emotions, hangs in the air like a storm cloud. Plankton's heart is a tumultuous sea, a whirl of feelings he can't quite articulate. But the box, it's something he can touch, something tangible amidst the chaos. He opens the box, his antennae twitching with curiosity. Each item inside is a memory, a bridge to their past, a promise for the future. He picks up a smooth stone, feeling its coolness against his skin. It's comforting. The headphones lay at the top, a silent guardian of peace. He puts them on, the cacophony of the outside world muffled. For the first time in hours, his mind is still, quiet. He can breathe. He keeps looking in the box. A fidget spinner, its colors blending as it twirls. He's watched Chip play with them before, spinning them absently, lost in thought. Now it's in his hands, a whirl of motion. It's strange, but comforting. He tries to mimic his son's ease, his mind racing with the thought that maybe, just maybe, his pain is understood. A squishy ball, soft and yielding, like his own heart under the weight of his frustration. He squeezes it, feeling the tension ease from his fingers, his mind. It's like a silent scream, a gentle release. He hadn't realized how much he needed this. He picks up a fidget cube, each side a different texture. He runs his antennae over the bumps, the smoothness. It's calming, the way it chases the chaos from his thoughts. He twists it in his hands, the click-clack a metronome to his racing thoughts. He takes off the headphones. The room is quiet, but he can still feel the echoes of Chip's voice, his son's hope. He holds the cube tightly, his antennae vibrating with the memory of Chip's earnest pleas for forgiveness. He's not ready to forgive, but the gesture isn't lost on him. He opens the drawer beside his bed, rummaging through the medical supplies. His fingers trace over cool numbing gel, the pediatric-friendly kind that Chip had used at his dentist. Then he feels it, the edge of a pin, the weight of a heartfelt gesture. He pulls it out, his antennae trembling. He opens it. It's a small booklet. On the cover, in bold letters, it reads "AUTISM FRIENDLY EMERGENCY INSTRUCTIONS." Chip's handwriting. He opens it to read a guide for doctors, for neighbors, for anyone who might not understand. Inside, the pages are filled with simple diagrams and bullet points, detailing Plankton's sensory needs, his stims, his triggers. Chip's words are written: "My dad's special, and he has a thing called autism. It means sometimes things are too much for him, and he needs help." The booklet is a map of Plankton's soul, a guide to his inner world. "Please, be patient and calm. He's not being difficult, he's just overwhelmed." Chip's words are a lifeline, a bridge to understanding. "Make sure to respect his boundaries," it says. "And don't touch him without asking first." It then has Karen's phone number and his sensory friendly therapist's contact. Plankton's antennae quiver as he reads, his heart swelling with a mix of pride and pain. His son has taken the time to understand him, to advocate for him. He closes it gently, his eye wet with unshed tears. "Thank you," he whispers to the empty room as he puts the booklet back in the box. Plankton sets the box of goods on his nightstand. He turns to go to his son's room. He opens the door to Chip's room, the space a whirlwind of colors and sounds. His heart flutters with nerves, his antennae twitching. Chip's screen is dim, casting a soft glow. He's asleep. Plankton pauses, not ready to wake him, not yet. But he wants him to know. He sits on the edge of the bed. He reaches out, his hand hovering over Chip's shoulder. He needs to feel the connection, the warmth of his son. He touches him gently, his hand trembling as he slides his hand in Chip's, who remains asleep. Plankton sighs, his chest tightening. He can't find the words to explain the tornado of emotions whirling inside him. He's not used to this kind of connection, not with Chip. He looks at his son's sleeping form, his screen a serene blue. The silent rise and fall of Chip's chest. Plankton's antennae quiver, his heart racing with a strange mixture of emotions. He's not used to this kind of intimacy, not with Chip. But the box and booklet he left in his nightstand, it's all a testament to his son's growth. He's trying. Plankton lies down on the bed. He can feel the gentle weight of Chip's hand in his own. The boy's screens are dark now, his breaths slow and steady. Later, Chip eventually stirs awake, his screens flickering with surprise when he feels the weight of his father's hand on his shoulder. Plankton is asleep beside him, their hands entwined. Chip's heart skips a beat, his mind racing with questions. What happened? Did his dad forgive him? Yet Plankton's gentle snores are real, his antennae still. He looks down at their intertwined hands, a silent testament to something new, something unspoken. The weight of his dad's forgiveness? Or just the comfort of shared space? Chip isn't sure, but he's grateful for the warmth, the connection. He lies there for a while, his screens dimming to match his father's rest. His mind is a whirl of thoughts, of what's been said and not said. Of the distance they've traveled, and the journey still ahead. But for now, this moment, it's enough.

𝖠𝖴𝖳𝖨𝖲𝖬 𝖠𝖭𝖣 𝖠𝖫𝖫 pt. 14 (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 Chip sits beside Karen, watching his dad sleep. He's quiet, his mind racing with questions. How can someone so strong, so in control, be brought to this? The room feels heavy with silence, the air thick with unspoken fears and love. Plankton's snores are a comforting reminder that he's okay, that the storm has passed. Chip's screen flickers with the memory of his dad's favorite pranks, his laughter echoing in the quiet room. But now, his dad looks so small, so fragile. Karen notices Chip's distant gaze. "Remember, Chip, he's still the same person." She pauses, searching for the right words. "His autism doesn't change who he is, just how he experiences the world." Chip nods, but the doubt lingers. How can he understand a world so alien to his own? The silence in the room is broken by Plankton's sudden mumble. "Karen?" His voice is a whisper, his antennae slowly rising. Her screen lights up with relief and love. "You're okay," she says, her hand stroking his. Plankton's eye opens, unfocused and tired. "Chip?" He sees his son, sitting on the bed, his screen filled with uncertainty. "Dad?" Chip whispers. Plankton's antennae twitch as he tries to sit up. "I'm okay," he says, his voice hoarse. Karen's hand on his shoulder steadies him. "Just tired." The weight of sleep lifts from his eyelid. Chip watches, his screen reflecting the hope that his dad is okay. "Do you... Do you remember?" Plankton's eye widens, his antennae quivering. "Chip," he murmurs, his voice filled with regret. "It's okay, Dad," Chip says, his voice firm. "You had a meltdown." Plankton's antennae fall, his gaze dropping. "I'm sorry," Plankton whispers, his voice thick with guilt. "It's not your fault," Karen says, squeezing his hand. "We know it's not." But Chip is full of questions. "What can I do?" he asks, his screen eager. "How can I help?" Karen smiles, her eyes filling with pride. "You're already helping," she says. "Just by being here, just by loving him." But Chip wants more. He wants to understand, to help in the way Karen does. "What are his triggers?" he asks. Karen's screens flicker with thought. "Well," she says, "it's different for everyone. For him, it can be sudden noises, changes in routine, or even his belongings being moved without his knowing." Chip nods, his mind racing. "But what about his stims?" he asks. "Those are his way of coping," Karen explains. "When he flaps his arms, spins, or repeats words, he's trying to regulate his sensory input. It's like he's tuning in to the world." Karen says. "And when he repeats words or phrases, it helps him make sense of what's happening. Let him do his thing. Sometimes he'll need help to calm down, like with the squeezy ball or his fidget toy. And sometimes, just being there, quietly, is all he needs. As long as you listen and respect his boundaries, you'll be his best helper." Chip's curiosity is piqued. He looks at his dad, now easing himself onto the pillow. "What types of touch does he like?" Chip's voice is soft. Karen's screens flicker with memories of trial and error, of finding the right balance. "Some autistics like deep pressure," she says. "It can be soothing. But he's different. He usually prefers light touches, like strokes or holding hands." Plankton's antennae twitch at the mention of his name. "What do I do if he has another meltdown?" Chip's voice is earnest. "Just be there," Karen says. "Sometimes, just knowing you're there can make all the difference." She sighs. "But if it's really bad, we'll have to get the medicine again, as a last resort. It's hard," she admits. "But I love him. And I'll always be here for him." Chip nods. "I love him too," he says, his voice barely above a whisper. "I want to help him." Karen's screens glow with pride. "You already do," she says. "But I know you want to understand more." Chip nods. "What about when he's really happy?" Karen's screens light up with a smile. "Oh, his laughter is the sweetest sound. But if he reaches for you, if he wants to share that joy, just be there, okay?" Chip nods, eager to learn. "What if he starts repeating things again?" Karen's screen softens. "It's called echolalia," she says. "It's his brain's way of processing. Just let him finish, and then you can talk." She pauses, her thumb tracing a pattern on Plankton's hand. "And if you repeat something with understanding, it can help make him feel heard." Chip nods, his mind racing. He's seen his dad do this before, but never knew what it meant. "What about his rocking?" he asks. Karen's screens flicker with knowledge. "That's his way of self-stimulating," she says. "It helps him regulate his nervous system. Sometimes it's soothing, sometimes it's how he thinks. Remember, his body's his own. If he pulls away, it's not personal. It's just his way of saying he needs a break." "How did you learn all of this?" Karen looks down at their intertwined hands, her screens reflecting the journey. "Trials and errors, love," she says. "And listening to him. Everyone's autism is different. What works for one might not work for another. We just have to keep trying, keep learning." Chip nods, his mind racing with questions. "How do we know if he's about to have a meltdown?" Karen looks at Plankton, his antennae still. "Look for the signs," she says. "Sudden agitation, avoiding eye contact, flapping his arms, or repeating words. That's when you know he's overwhelmed." He nods, trying to picture it. "What about his box?" "That's sensory aids," she explains. "They help him cope with stress. It's important we don't touch it without asking first." "What's in there? Dad, can I see?" But Plankton cuts him off. "Absolutely NOT!" he says. Karen's screen flickers with a smile. "It's his personal space," she tells Chip gently. "Those things are special to him, his tools to stay calm." Chip nods, his curiosity still unquenched. "Can I..." But Plankton's antennae shoot up. "I just said no, Chip!" He's alert, his voice sharp. Karen's grip on his hand tightens. "Remember," she says calmly, "his box is his sanctuary." Plankton's gaze locks with Chip's, his eye wide with agitation. "Okay, okay," Chip says, his hands up in surrender. He can feel the tension in the air, the unspoken words heavy between them. "What if I just peek?" he asks him. Plankton's antennae quiver. "No," he says firmly. "It's not for playing." "Dad, I--" "How about NO?" Plankton says, his voice still a little rough around the edges. Chip nods, his curiosity now mixed with respect. "Okay," he says. "But can you show me?" Karen looks at Plankton, his antennae still. "It's okay," she says softly. "We can show him together." Plankton's eye narrows, but he doesn't resist as Karen opens the box.