Page 152 of Invisible Bars

Imanio stepped back and motioned toward me like nothing had happened.

“She’s the patient. Let’s focus on her.”

I bit my lip to keep from laughing.

“Y-You didn’t have to threaten my doctor.”

“You didn’t have to bemine, but here we are,” he countered.

Mine?

That word echoed in my head long after he said it.

No smirk. No wink. No playful shrug to soften the blow.

It didn’t sound like a joke; it sounded like a line drawn in permanent marker. And for reasons I didn’t even want to unpack right then… I didn’t hate it.

We went through the typical routine during my appointment, which included a series of basic neurological tests and an in-depth discussion about my tics, sleep patterns, and dietary habits. As we navigated those topics, I made an effort to keep the mood light; I even cracked a joke about my tendency to throw a hairbrush at the wall when I felt overwhelmed by stimulation. Imanio responded with a laugh that was a bit louder than I anticipated, causing me to give him a playful side-eye.

Dr. Camden noticed the exchange and raised an eyebrow, clearly amused by our dynamic.

Despite the seriousness of the subjects we were discussing, it felt good to inject a bit of humor into the conversation.

“Well,” Dr. Camden said, scribbling something on the notepad, “given the increase in frequency and your reported anxiety spikes, I’d like to up your dosage by ten milligrams—just to stabilize you.”

Before I could even respond, Imanio sat up.

“Tenwhat?” he snapped.

I leaned back like I was dodging something.

“Caution! Asshole crossing! Ugh! Sorry—tic, not shade!”

Dr. Camden quivered. “Ten… ten milligrams. It’s… it’s a small bump. N-nothing major.”

“You try taking that ‘small bump’ and feeling like a damn zombie for two days,” Imanio said, arms folded tight across his chest. “She’s not broken, and she’s not some experiment you just get to adjust like a thermostat! You don’t fix her; you help her! So help her!”

Dr. Evans tried to stay composed. “Sir, I’ve… I’ve been treating Miss Ali for years?—”

“Then act like it,” Imanio interrupted. “You should know by now her condition isn’t just physical, it’s emotional. And if she says she’s been taking them daily, then maybe talk to her about theoverwhelmpart instead of turning her into a lab rat.”

Something shifted in the room, like the temperature had dropped a few degrees. Dr. Camden sat back slightly, eyes darting between us.

Then, like a light bulb flicked on, Imanio’s face changed—still stern, but something behind his eyes softened. Realization.

“Then again, y’all don’t need to discuss that reason. Ask her how she feels when she takes her medication.”

Dr. Camden adjusted his glasses, his expression more cautious now. He looked at me directly.

“Miss Ali… do you feel over-medicated? Foggy? Like you’re not… fully present?” He paused, then cleared his throat and added, “Do you feel safe in your current environment?”

My hands gradually clenched into tight fists on my lap, the tension in my fingers palpable as they fought against each other, as if engaged in a silent argument. I could sense the weight of both of their gazes on me—one pair filled with clinical scrutiny, analyzing every twitch and flinch, while the other exuded warmth and protectiveness.

I randomly hummed the first bar of “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star” then snapped my fingers hard.

I glanced at Imanio again. He didn’t say a word, but the way his knee was bouncing slightly saidplenty.

Dr. Camden shifted forward in his seat, tone careful.