The compliment you handed back

"You seem different lately." In a kitchen, a hallway, a parking lot. And before they finished, you were already taking it apart. Early days. Got lucky. Ask me in a year. You meant it as modesty. Out loud, in front of a witness, you described the old you.

That deflection is insurance. If you never accept the praise, a bad night later can't make a liar of you. It sounds humble. It's a bet on your own failure, paid in advance. Every "it's early days" keeps a seat warm for the cigarette.

Out loud matters more than in your head. A thought can be argued with later. A sentence said to someone gets filed by both of you, with their face attached. Right now you're unwrapping a gift and handing it straight back. One plain thank you lets a true thing stay in the room.

Next time somebody notices, you've got a two sentence script. No qualifier after it. No joke to break the tension. Your face may go hot for a second. That's an old self image finding nowhere to stand. God handed you something true, so hold on to it. Thank you. I'm glad you noticed.