MBTI high school

Chapter 58:

Chapter 58: Why Did ISTP Even Come?

There are moments in life when you make decisions you know are bad—but you make them anyway.
For ISTP, that exact moment was called: "I gave in after Uncle Lucien's 43rd message."

Normally, he lived far away. Very far. The kind of far that isn’t chosen by accident, but because one needs silence, thick walls, and a minimum safe distance of 10 km from any collective human emotion.
Except this time, the system’s flaw had a name:
Public holiday + Wi-Fi on + unread messages = fatal trap.

> “Are you ever coming or should I come get you with the police? 😁,” said Uncle Lucien’s last message. He’d used an emoji. An EMOJI.

ISTP sighed, closed his bag, and grabbed his helmet.

When he arrived at the Lucien house, the air smelled like lasagna and unresolved family tension.
Nothing had changed. The plastic plants still stood like vegetable bodyguards in the entryway, and the dog barked as if it had never seen a human before.
Or maybe it too could sense the aura of an introvert on the verge of social burnout.

— Aunt Roselyne: “Look who finally showed up! The fugitive!”

ISTP dropped his bag. He hadn’t even stepped inside, and he already regretted it.

— Aunt Roselyne: “Seriously, where have you been? I bet you were either dead in a ditch or in prison after a failed Lidl robbery.”

— ISTP: “Hello Roselyne. Your tact really moves me. Like a slap. With nails.”

She burst out laughing—dry and sharp.

— Aunt Roselyne: “We really need to teach you how to be nice. You’ve got the charm of a fire alarm.”

— ISTP: “And you’ve got the subtlety of one. It's like you scream just to feel alive.”

Roselyne: 0. ISTP: 1.

Uncle Lucien, meanwhile, had already kicked off his version of wild therapy.
He had prepared a cozy little setup in the living room: two chairs facing each other, soft lighting, tissues... and a notebook. A NOTEBOOK.

— Uncle Lucien: “Come on, have a seat. Tell me everything. How are you? Really?”

ISTP sat down. Reluctantly.
He looked at his uncle the way one looks at a talking mosquito.

— ISTP: “I’m fine.”

— Uncle Lucien: “No, but... really. You know, you can cry if you want. There’s no shame.”

— ISTP: “Uncle. I’m hungry. That’s all. And not as a metaphor for emotional emptiness. I’m literally. Hungry.”

But Lucien wrote down “hunger = inner void” in his notebook.
ISTP rolled his eyes.
He considered choking on a spaghetti noodle—just to end the session early.

---

He escaped to the kitchen.
Bad move. Aunt Roselyne was waiting there—ambush style. And she’d clearly spent her morning prepping zingers like a sniper lines up bullets.

— Aunt Roselyne: “Your walk? It’s like you’re carrying the weight of all your bad decisions.”

— ISTP: “That’s probably why you move so slowly…”

Roselyne: 0. ISTP: 2.

She stepped closer, looking down at him with a mocking smile.

— Aunt Roselyne: “Want me to teach you how to cook something besides noodles? Or are you married to Uber Eats?”

— ISTP: “Thanks. But judging by your oven, you didn’t invent cuisine either.”

Roselyne, technical K.O.

And then… the fatal moment.
The real one.
The unicorn-pajama apocalypse.
The cousins.

They burst in, loud like a flock of birds, perfumed like a burning Sephora, and hyped like reality TV contestants on Red Bull.

— Josée: “ISTP, I need your opinion. Urgent. Which is worse: a guy who leaves me on read, or one who replies ‘ok’ to my paragraphs?”

— Lizzy: “Wait wait, me first! My ex texted ‘Hope you’re doing well’ at 3 a.m. What does that mean??”

— Zoey: “And mine liked my crying-story on Instagram. Is that a sign or not??”

ISTP wanted to die. But politely.

He sat down. He sighed.
He slipped into the role.
Because, in spite of everything… he was good at this. Very good.
He analyzed. He cut deep. He served truths so cold, they could’ve come from an emotional freezer.

— ISTP: “The ‘ok’ is passive aggression. Next. Your ex messaged you because he fought with the girl he replaced you with. Ignore him. And liking a crying story? That’s sadistic. Block him.”

Silence. Then sighs. Then: “ISTP, you just get us.” “You’re so wise.”
“You’re like our therapist… but hot.”

ISTP closed his eyes. He stopped listening. Mentally, he escaped.
He pictured himself in a cave. Alone. With an axe. And silence.

That evening, ISTP sat in the garden.
Uncle Lucien had pulled out an old “gratitude journal.”
Roselyne was filming him while he took out the trash (“It’s so rare, I had to capture the moment”), and the cousins wanted to show him a sketchy chat with someone named Luv_2.0.

ISTP stared into the distance.
Blank. Disconnected. At peace… in his head.

Then he whispered, emotionless, like a dying breath:

— ISTP: “You guys make me miss ENTP.”

Silence fell.

The kind of silence you only hear in horror movies—just before something blows up.

Uncle frowned. Roselyne dropped her mug. The cousins:

— All: “You mean THE ENTP???”

— ISTP: “Yeah. Him. Even his conspiracy theories were better than this.”