Page 153 of Invisible Bars
“I only ask because sometimes when patients feel foggy or withdrawn, it’s not always the medication. It can be environmental or … situational,” he clarified.
That was code. I knew it. And so did Imanio.
His knee stopped bouncing, and he grilled my doctor.
“The only situation you need to worry about is her symptoms. Naji’s not being held hostage against her will, abused, or none of that shit—if that’s what you’re implying, doc.”
Dr. Camden raised his hands slightly. “No—no! I just meant… some patients mask stress in high-functioning ways. I only want to make sure she’s supported.”
Imanio’s jaw flexed once. “She’s supported.”
Silence thickened between them, but not the kind that lingered long.
I let out a small breath and spoke up before things could turn into a territory war.
“I’m fine. I promise. I just… I’ve been under a different kind of pressure lately.”
Then the words jumped out before I could stop them.
“Stress is a bitch with no edges! Sorry!” I quickly apologized.
He nodded in understanding.
“But sometimes yeah… I do feel nauseated and foggy. I only started t-taking them daily again because, like I said, I have been under more stress lately. I… I don’t plan on staying on this routine, though.”
I peered over at Imanio.
Imanio probably didn’t know it, but he could be thesomewhatcure to my tics. Though they’d never fully leave, being around him—when things were calm—made them… quieter.
Dr. Camden nodded, shifting slightly in his seat.
“Alright.” He sighed. “Then let’s hold your current dose steady for now—no increases. But I do want you to keep monitoring your stress levels. That’s going to be the biggest trigger, as you know. I’m also going to refer you to a behavioral specialist—just someone to work with you on some calming strategies again. Breathing techniques, grounding, maybe some guided meditation if you’re open to it.” He gave a tentative smile. “We’ll keep it light and manageable.”
“Much better,” Imanio chimed in, sitting back, but the heat in his eyes hadn’t cooled. “Next time, try thatfirst,” Imanio added sharply, but with calm authority. “The goal should never be sedation; it should be stability. She deserves to feel like herself.”
Imanio spoke like a man who wasn’t just present, but protective—like a real husband.
Then he winked at me—quick, subtle—but it hit me straight in the chest. It sent butterflies fluttering low in my stomach. That little gesture let me know he had my back, and in that moment, I truly appreciated him.
After a brief and awkward silence, I signed a few forms, grabbed my prescription refill, and practically dragged Imanio out by the wrist before he could give a whole lecture on side effects.
When we left the room, I had a tic that made me mutter, “White-coat mafia.”
We exited through the same back hallway we came in through, sunlight flooding us once we hit the alley. The moment we made it to the jet-black SUV parked discreetly at the curb, I let out a breath and leaned against the door.
“R-Remind me never to take you to a dentist!” I huffed, fanning myself with the appointment folder. “You might slap the drill out his hand and tell him, ‘Back up off her molars, doc!’”
Imanio finally cracked a smile, shaking his head.
That’s when it happened.
“Don’t take my organs—I need those to live!” I shouted out of nowhere, nearly choking on my own breath.
On cue, a couple walking past actually stopped and stared.
Imanio shot them a look so sharp, they speed-walked in the opposite direction without a word.
He focused back on me, chuckling and shaking his head.
