Her voice in my bones

They called me to the visitor's wing.

No warning.

Just a staff member with a clipboard and a voice too polite to trust.

> "Someone from your family wants to see you."

I didn't ask who.

Because it didn't matter.

They always come back when your silence turns into sentences.

---

He was already seated when I walked in.

The uncle who told the others I was "overreacting."

The man who once called my breakdown "a phase."

Now?

He looked at me like I was holy — or haunted.

Maybe both.

---

> "Arianne," he said, standing halfway like he deserved a hug for showing up late.

I sat across from him.

Didn't blink.

Didn't smile.

Just breathed.

Because that was enough to make him uncomfortable.

---

> "I've been thinking a lot," he began.

> "Good," I said.

"That must be new."

---

He flinched. Deserved it.

> "I didn't understand what you were going through—"

> "You didn't want to. Understanding would've ruined the comfort of your denial."

---

He swallowed, tried again.

> "We all thought you just needed time."

> "I needed a voice. And every time I tried to use it, you labeled it madness."

---

Silence.

But not peace.

Just that guilt-heavy air people create when they want forgiveness without discomfort.

---

> "I'm sorry," he finally said.

> "You're late," I answered.

> "Does that mean there's no chance for us to—"

> "There was never an 'us.' There was me, suffering. And you, watching."

---

He stood slowly.

As if shame added weight to his bones.

> "I'll go," he muttered.

> "You already did. You left the moment I needed you."

---

I didn't follow him out.

Because power isn't always loud.

Sometimes it's just staying seated when they expect you to chase their guilt.