Her voice in my bones

They came for me in twos again.

The administrator and the counselor —

the "soft voice and sharp pen" duo.

Said they were reviewing my case.

Said I was doing "so well."

And all I could think was:

> Why does "well" feel like a new kind of prison?

---

They showed me a document.

Said they were planning a "reassessment."

I asked to read the fine print.

They hesitated.

Mistake.

---

> "Is something wrong?" I asked, tilting my head.

"Or do you just hope I won't understand what you're doing?"

---

The counselor smiled. Carefully.

> "We just want to ensure you're still a fit for this facility."

> "A fit? I'm not a puzzle piece. I'm the table you keep breaking your game on."

---

I read the paper.

And there it was — line six, paragraph three:

> Subject shows "controlled aggression" masked as verbal clarity.

I laughed.

Not loudly. Not mockingly.

Just… like someone who's finally heard the punchline of their own diagnosis.

---

> "You mean I make you uncomfortable when I stop nodding and start narrating?"

Neither of them responded.

Which was confirmation enough.

---

> "You want me calm, not clear," I said softly.

"You want me grateful, not grounded."

> "We just want what's best for you."

> "Then stop calling your control compassion."

---

I handed back the paper.

Didn't sign it.

Didn't ask what happened next.

Because for the first time in years…

I wasn't the one afraid of consequences.