Page 67 of Invisible Bars
“G-Give me back to the streets?” I retorted, voice rising. “Y-You say that like… like I’m aprostitute!”
“It came out wrong.” That was his way of apologizing.
“Yeah—j-just like my words do!” I clapped back, tensing as a tic hit. “Ah! Feed the pigeons, save the sinners! So, f-forgive me if I can’t help what comes out of my mouth! S-Sometimes it’s a tic! Sometimes it’s a trauma dump! Sometimes it’s just my b-b-brain running wild! Sometimes it’s… it’s all three! I don’t know! I just… say what’s there sometimes!”
I stared at him—eyes burning and blinking fast like that would stop me from going off.
“You act like just b-because I’ve got sheets with a high thread count and someone warming up my damn waffles, I’m… I’m supposed to forget I didn’taskto be here! Like… like being fed and pampered erases the fact that you tookme!”
Imanio looked at me, eyes cool. “I don’t trust you enough yet to know you won’t go to the police, tell your best friend, or goLIVE showing off my crib to everybody. This isn’t punishment, Naji.”
“Control freak concierge…” I muttered, my body twitching again. “Hostage hotline… welcome to the goddamn trauma inn!”
The tics were eating me alive that day, and he just sat there like I was background noise.
“Then what do you call it?” I asked, my voice sharp and strained.
Imanio looked me dead in the eye and replied, “Precaution.”
Just that one word. No apology. No softening. No fake comfort.
I sucked in a breath, hands trembling. And that silence that followed?It stretched between us like a tripwire.
No matter how plush the pillows were or how sweet the tea tasted… I was still in a cage. And now he’d reminded me exactly who held the key.
Imanio sighed deeply and ran a hand down his face like he was trying to knock the frustration off without throwing it at me.
“Are they always bad? Your tics?”
That was the last question I expected from him.
I didn’t answer immediately.
“No… not always,” I finally responded, tapping my foot, avoiding eye contact with him.
“Only when you’re stressed?”
I whipped my head at him.
“Yes! Like now!” Then my voice softened. “Or when I’m overstimulated, scared, o-overthinking, or tired. Sometimes they just… happen. But yeah, when I’m calm, they’re not as heavy… at least not as often.”
He nodded.
“What helps? Like, what actually calms you down?”
I hesitated, not sure if that was a setup for another awkward fix-it moment—but Imanio didn’t look like he was trying tofixanything; he looked like he was trying to understand me.
“Aside from my meds… I like to read, watch comfort shows; the ones I’ve seen a hundred times with no jump scares and little drama. I also… watch cartoons. D-Don’t judge me,”I said quickly, eyes flicking away. “It’s… calming and h-helps quiet my head when everything else feels loud.”
He raised both hands, voice even. “No judgment here. I’m just listening and trying to get an understanding.”
“I also look at old modeling magazines. I… I don’t even read them half the time. I just f-flip through the pictures and let my brain settle. And music… slow, vibey stuff. Old-school Brandy, Sade… or just soundscapes, likeoceanwater,” I explained.
Imanio nodded again—more thoughtful that time. It was like he was storing the answers instead of silently questioning them.
“Okay. That helps.”
Helps what?I wondered.
