Her voice in my bones

They invited me to a session.

Said it would be "constructive."

Said it would "help with closure."

I almost laughed.

Closure is a fantasy for people who had the luxury of a clean ending.

---

There were four of them sitting in the room:

The therapist.

The social worker.

The administrator.

And him.

The man who signed my admission papers like he was returning a product that didn't work as expected.

---

> "We want to hear how you're feeling," the therapist said gently.

I looked at the floor.

Then the ceiling.

Then at him.

> "Like you all want to be forgiven without the discomfort of accountability," I replied.

---

The room went silent.

Even the clock seemed to pause.

> "That's not fair," he muttered.

> "Neither was what you did," I said. "But we're still here, aren't we?"

---

I let the silence choke them for a bit.

Because sometimes silence is a scalpel.

And I needed to do surgery.

---

> "You documented my grief like a disease," I said.

"You treated my survival like a malfunction."

> "You were in pain—"

> "I was the pain."

---

The social worker opened her mouth.

I raised my hand.

She stopped.

I wasn't done.

> "You didn't just let me fall," I said.

"You buried me while I was still breathing."

---

Then I smiled.

Not kindly.

Not cruelly.

Just… finally.

> "And now you're uncomfortable because the girl you abandoned refuses to stay quiet."

---

I stood up and walked out.

No one stopped me.

Because when the echo speaks louder than the scream,

there's nothing left to argue with.