She began pausing before she spoke.
Not searching for words. Waiting for clearance.
I could see it in her throat, the way the muscles there tightened briefly, like a gate opening just enough to let something pass. When she finally spoke, her voice sounded the same, but the cadence was off. The emphasis landed in unfamiliar places.
"I don't think in sentences anymore," she said one morning. "It's more like… signals."
"What kind of signals?" I asked.
She pressed her tongue against the inside of her cheek, considering. "Pressure. Weight. Direction."
She stood up mid-conversation and walked to the window.
Not abruptly. Purposefully.
Her movements were economical now. No wasted motion. When she turned, her whole body turned with her, not piece by piece like before. She stood with her feet slightly wider apart, stance grounded, as if bracing against a force that no longer needed bracing.
"I don't get lost inside my head anymore," she said. "There's no room."
I noticed then that she no longer touched her face when she talked. No nervous habits. No self-soothing gestures. Her hands stayed low, close to her center, as if they belonged to something that preferred them there.
Later, she tried to write.
She sat at the table with a notebook open in front of her. Pen poised. Waiting. Minutes passed. Her hand trembled faintly, not from weakness, but restraint.
"I know what I want to say," she said. "I just can't decide where to start."
"Then don't decide," I replied.
She nodded. Lowered the pen.
The first line was a single mark. Not a letter. A shallow groove where the pen pressed too hard into the page.
Her hand moved again.
The marks that followed weren't words. They were repetitions. Lines. Curves. Dense clusters that overlapped until the paper tore slightly under the pressure.
She stared at the page, breathing carefully.
"That's closer," she said.
At night, she stopped sleeping entirely.
Her eyes closed. Her body rested. But sleep, the kind that disconnects, never came. She lay still for hours, breathing in that steady pattern, listening to something internal that didn't need dreams.
Once, in the early hours, she spoke without opening her eyes.
"It doesn't like silence," she said.
"Who?" I asked.
Her lips parted slowly. "The parts that are still loose."
After that, she began humming.
Not songs. Single tones. Sustained, low sounds that vibrated in her chest. When she did it, the movement under her skin eased, settling into place like something soothed.
Her abdomen shifted subtly with each note, responding.
I watched her throat work harder when the pitch dropped, muscles thickening, accommodating.
One afternoon, she stood in the doorway again.
This time, she didn't hesitate.
She stepped through easily, body angled just enough to clear the frame without touching it. The movement was practiced. Rehearsed.
"I fit now," she said.
I realized then she hadn't asked if she could go.
She went out alone. For hours.
When she came back, her clothes sat differently on her. Not wrinkled. Reoriented. Like they'd been worn by someone who knew exactly how much space they were allowed.
"Did anything happen?" I asked.
She took a moment before answering.
"People looked at me," she said. "Not because they noticed something wrong. Because they felt it."
"What did they feel?"
She smiled again. That delayed, echoing smile.
"Structure," she said. "They moved out of my way."
That night, as we lay in bed, she turned toward me.
Her face was very close. Too close for comfort, but comfort wasn't the point anymore.
"It's learning how to use my mouth," she said. "I'm just… translating."
Her hand reached for my wrist.
When she touched me, the sensation arrived all at once. No warmth delay. No softness. Just contact. Intent.
"Don't pull away," she added, gently. "That makes it tense."
I stayed still.
Her grip adjusted minutely, fingers tightening and relaxing in a sequence that wasn't emotional. It was corrective.
"See?" she said. "It listens when you cooperate."
Something moved beneath her skin again, larger now, confident enough not to hide.
She exhaled.
"So much easier," she whispered. "When everyone stays where they're meant to."
I didn't answer.
I didn't need to.
I was already being positioned.
—————————
I started noticing the adjustments after she touched me.
Not immediately. That would have been too obvious. They came later, when I wasn't looking for them. When I assumed I was still outside of it.
The chair I always sat in felt lower. The bed dipped differently beneath my weight. The mirror in the hallway caught my reflection at an angle that made my shoulders look uneven, like I was leaning without realizing it.
I corrected myself.
The correction didn't hold.
She watched these changes with interest. Not concern. Interest suggests intention, but this felt closer to assessment.
"You move a lot," she said one evening.
I laughed. "I always have."
She shook her head slowly. "No. You adjust a lot. Like you're still trying to find the right configuration."
That word again. Configuration.
I felt suddenly aware of my spine. Of how I stood. Of how much space my lungs took up when I breathed in.
She stepped closer. Close enough that I could feel the heat from her body, but it wasn't heat anymore. It was density. Her presence felt heavier, like standing too close to a machine that was already running.
"You don't need to," she said gently. "It already knows where you go."
"Who does?" I asked.
She reached up and placed her fingers lightly at the base of my throat.
Not pressing. Measuring.
"The parts that don't move," she said. "They prefer stability."
I swallowed.
The motion felt exaggerated. Like my body had overcompensated.
She lowered her hand and nodded, as if confirming something. "You'll learn faster if you stop narrating yourself."
That night, I couldn't sleep.
Not from fear. From awareness.
I could feel my organs distinctly. Their weight. Their placement. The way they shifted when I rolled over, slower than I expected, like they were checking something before following.
I sat up.
The room felt different. Oriented around her, even though she was asleep. Her breathing set a rhythm the space obeyed. The fan. The distant traffic. My own pulse.
I realized then that I had begun timing myself to her.
In the morning, she corrected how I stood.
Not verbally.
She simply placed her hand on my back and applied light pressure in a direction I hadn't realized I was resisting. My body responded instantly, aligning before my mind caught up.
"There," she said. "That's better."
"What was wrong before?" I asked.
She considered. "You were misaligned."
"With what?"
She smiled. That delayed smile. "With us."
After that, the guidance became constant.
Sit here.
Stand there.
Don't lean like that.
Breathe slower.
Each suggestion landed with a strange sense of relief, like something had been struggling to let go. When I followed them, the pressure eased. When I didn't, discomfort bloomed quietly. Not pain. Correction.
I began asking her before I did things.
Not consciously. Reflexively.
Is this okay?
Should I move?
Does this feel right?
She always answered calmly. Confidently.
And she was always right.
One afternoon, I caught my reflection in the bathroom mirror while she stood behind me.
I looked… placed.
My posture mirrored hers now. The same subtle forward tilt. The same grounded stance. Even my breathing had changed, shallower but steadier, paced around something I couldn't name.
"You're adapting," she said softly. "That's good."
"To what?" I asked.
She leaned in close, her mouth near my ear.
"To function," she said. "To purpose."
Something shifted under my skin then. Not violently. Just enough to make itself known. A small internal correction, like a joint settling into its proper socket after being wrong for years.
I exhaled without realizing I'd been holding my breath.
Her hand rested briefly on my chest.
"See?" she said. "You feel better when you stop insisting on being separate."
That night, when I lay beside her, I noticed I had stopped watching her body for movement.
I didn't need to.
I could feel it now.
Not through touch. Through alignment. Through shared pressure. Through the way the bed supported us as a single shape instead of two.
In the dark, she spoke once more.
"It doesn't need you to disappear," she said. "Just to stay where you belong."
I didn't ask where that was.
My body already knew.