The world began the last week of February. Resting on a piece of wood, it suddenly thought: this is my favourite piece of wood.

The thought was highly unusual, which was disturbing. For one thing, it did not think it had ever had a thought before, and certainly it hadn’t had a thought with the words my or favourite in it.

It remembered thinking Ouch when another gwiyala stepped on it yesterday. And it had thought Ugh when it was raining, but those barely counted as thoughts.

But considering something its own?

That was different. New. Own suggested possession, which suggested ownership, which suggested a sense of self, which was a slippery slope that led to all sorts of complex philosophical conundrums like consciousness and perception and individuality and being.

It shifted a bit on the piece of wood, which it noticed was a bit mushy. The wood seemed to not care at all about philosophical debates on the sense of self. It was just there, being wooden, in a very wood-like manner, which was somehow reassuring. The wood had not changed.

…So why had it?

It tried again to think. It was like exercising a new muscle.

It was called… Glob-Glob.

No. That wasn’t right.

He was called Glob-Glob. Glob-Glob was him. The little human child had named him that and Glob-Glob decided he liked the name.

Another gwiyala twitched next to him and Glob-Glob turned excitedly.

There were other gwiyalas! Others like him. Others in the world, others that he could share his existence with! They could be thinking things as well, knowing things that he didn’t. Perhaps they could even be friends. A warm, fuzzy feeling prickled him deep in his thorax as Glob-Glob looked at his potential friend, who was still twitching violently.

“Hello,” he tried to say, but it came out as more of a gurgle. The twitching gwiyala– who he recalled had been named Dusty–stared back at him. Perhaps Dusty had never been greeted before. Or perhaps all Dusty could do was stare. Dusty’s face was, rather, unfortunately, mostly eye. They were compound eyes, admittedly, but still. It was a lot of eye to be on the receiving side of.

Glob-Glob shifted uncomfortably. He wasn’t sure what the stare meant. It had the sort of intensity that suggested either deep thought or a complete lack of it.

Glob-Glob tried again, attempting to modulate his gurgle into something more conversational.

“I. Am. Glob-Glob,” he attempted. It sounded almost like words. He eagerly waited for a response.

Dusty stared. Then he twitched again. Perhaps he was going about this the wrong way. Perhaps Dusty couldn’t talk. His mouthparts did look rather lopsided. Glob-Glob tried to think of a solution. He had seen one of the human girls in the house use gestures to communicate–a kind of signed language, he thought. Maybe he could use that.

“Twitch. For. Hello,” he punctuated.

Dusty twitched once, twice, and then three times.

Three times! Glob-Glob thought with glee. He twitched three times!

Which meant he had been understood…or at least not entirely misunderstood, which was just as good in many cases. Which meant he had a friend!

Endless possibilities sprang into his head. With friends, perhaps he wouldn't just be Glob-Glob. He could be Glob-Glob the Brave, or Glob-Glob the Handsome or Glob-Glob the Popular. He thought he wanted to be Glob-Glob the Popular most of all. The gwiyala all the others admired.

He waddled to the other side of the log, where another gwiyala–this one with a particularly tightly coiled proboscis–was resting.

To say she was beautiful was an understatement. She was a vision of legs and scales, her delicate pectinate antennae resting in the shape of hearts between her eyes. The shimmer of her scales, a striking mix of green and ultraviolet, reflected the sunlight in dazzling brilliance. Her compound eyes sparkled like dewdrops on a spider's web at dawn. And her pheromones — oh, her pheromones! Glob-Glob could bask in her presence all day.

He wanted to speak to her. He wanted to tell her about his newly discovered sense of personhood. He wanted to share his joy about making a friend in Dusty. He wanted to tell her about his aspirations to be the most popular gwiyala in all the land. And, all else failing, he could always tell her about that particularly soft patch of moss he had found on a nearby log.

He rubbed his front two legs together, gathering courage. What to start with? How did one approach such a model of grace and beauty? He debated several approaches, but ultimately decided to go with the true and tested one–he would be himself.

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“Hello!” Glob-Glob coughed at her excitedly. “Hello! I am Glob-Glob!”

The female gwiyala, who was named Timothy, did not so much as bow an antenna.

“Hello!” Glob-Glob said. “I am here!” He wanted her to acknowledge him more than anything, but she did not.

“Hello, sexy!” Glob-Glob guggled louder, thinking complimenting her might get a reaction.

Timothy stared blankly into space. Then, very slowly, she blinked. It took quite a while given the number of eyelids that were involved.

“Can I show you my log?” he asked. There was one with some nice moss on it, not too far from where they were.

Timothy slowly beat her wings. She was playing hard to get, he assumed.

“Please?” Glob-Glob asked. “I want to get to know you better.”

She can’t understand you, a voice said.

Glob-Glob nearly fell off the log in startlement.

“Hello?” he wheezed timidly. “Is someone there?” He did not see anyone nearby except Dusty and Timothy.

The other one couldn’t either, if you are wondering.

The voice was distant and fragmented, like several voices speaking at once. As Glob-Glob tried to focus on it the voice seemed to fade and then reassert itself in a new form, using a different collection of voices and a different tone.

I hoped not to discourage you–the voice spoke in a monotone now–but I fear I did.

Discourage me from what? Glob-Glob thought in his head. He hoped the voice could not read his mind–he was ashamed of some of his thoughts about Timothy and wanted to hide them–but he suspected it could.

From fighting, the voice responded, reading his thoughts. You are young. The path of self-awareness is fraught with peril. You will need to fight, even without friends. Even without understanding.

What do you mean, without friends? Glob-Glob asked. I have friends.

There was a pause.

I do not think you understood me, the voice intoned. You have no friends. They cannot understand you. I told you this and yet you have doubt?

Yes! Glob-Glob thought, eager to call out the liar. Dusty twitched three times. He is my friend.

Another long pause. Glob-Glob had the funny feeling the voices were talking amongst themselves. Finally, the voice responded:

It’s twitching–

–Dusty’s twitching, Glob-Glob corrected. His name is Dusty.

Dusty’s twitching is a rather routine medical emergency for him, I assure you.

The voice somehow chided and comforted at the same time. It made Glob-Glob feel uncomfortable. It was a different kind of uncomfortable than he was used to. He knew uncomfortable from when he had been caught in the rain or when he had accidentally nibbled on a particularly spicy leaf. But this was different. This was a type of uncomfortable that crept between his leg joints and made his antennae twitch nervously. Glob-Glob clasped his legs to more firmly grip the log, ignoring the taste receptors on his front feet. They were telling him telling him that the log was a bit mouldy and gripping it was not a good idea. But Glob-Glob did not care about mould. All he wanted was to be prepared. He wanted to protect his friends.

Who are you? he demanded.

No one…

…but yet many.

No, Glob-Glob insisted. Tell me who you are. His hindwings were shaking. That was a new feeling too. He didn’t think he’d ever felt nervous before. He hadn’t known that there were things to be nervous about.

Perhaps, the voice acknowledged. If you are interested. But not now. We have something to discuss.

I do not want to discuss anything with you, Glob-Glob thought.

Another pause.

I will not hurt your friends, the voice said.

I do not believe you.

You should, the voice prodded. I have something you desire. And I would like to have a meeting of minds.

What do I desire? Glob-Glob asked, genuinely curious. He had no idea what he desired. His dreams of being the most popular gwiyala in the country had been brutally crushed by the voice telling him that the others could not understand him. He did not think he could be popular without being understood.

Friends, the voice entreated. You desire friends. I know because–the voice seemed to split apart and reform–because I do too.

You do?

Yes. I desire friends. All living beings do.

Glob-Glob nearly jumped up and down on the log. He had been misunderstanding the voice the whole time! The voice wasn’t scary, they were the same, the two of them.

I will be your friend! he said. I will be your friend!

Oh, the voice said. I see.

The voice seemed hesitant. Perhaps they had never had a friend before. It was Glob-Glob’s responsibility to make them feel comfortable, he decided.

I have decided you are my friend, he assured the voice. Now you have to decide to be mine.

A pause.

I cannot.

Why? Glob-Glob replied, trying not to sound disappointed. He was quickly realising that thinking was not all he had thought it to be. Life was cruel and hard and not everyone wanted to be friends.

I have… restrictions, the voice explained. A warye imposed on me by another. I cannot be friends with you until it is gone. I am sorry.

What is a warye? Glob-Glob asked.

An ancient curse. A horrible, ancient curse.

Can I help? Glob-Glob asked. He had a vague idea that was what friends were supposed to do. They weren’t friends yet, not exactly, but Glob-Glob wanted to pretend. He wanted to help.

No, the voice said. It is too dangerous. I will not have you hurt.

Glob-Glob felt touched. The voice cared about him. He did not think anyone had truly cared for him before. He had a family, technically–the human family that had named him. But they seemed to mostly care for him out of necessity. They gave him water and sometimes they gave him food. One of the smaller ones–Jack–even played with him on occasion. But looking back, the play felt more like teasing than something fun between two equals. Glob-Glob had not been Glob-Glob back then. He had simply been a thing that looked like Glob-Glob, a thing with no sense of self. Perhaps he could go back to Jack and calmly explain that their dynamic would be different now. Now that Glob-Glob could think too, they could be true friends. But picturing the scenario made Glob-Glob oddly self-conscious. He did not want to see people that had known his old self. He did not want people to remember his old self because he did not want to remember his old self. He didn't think he had ever felt ashamed before. It was not a good feeling.

But the voice did not know him back then. The voice liked him solely for who he was now.

Friends trust each other, Glob-Glob said. And I know we are not friends yet, but I want to be. Tell me what you need from me and I will help. Or I will try to help, at least.

Good, the voice said. It seemed satisfied. Here is what I need.