Chapter 4 – Crossing Lines
1451 Words
By the time Santiago was brought in again, I already knew this session would be different.
Not because of him.
Because of me.
I had read his file the night before. Not once. Not twice. Slowly. Carefully. As if there were something hidden between the lines that would finally explain why his presence lingered with me long after he was gone.
There wasn’t.
Only facts. Convictions. Psychological assessments written by men who needed certainty where there was none. Language shaped to justify containment. Control. Distance.
Still, when I closed the file, my shoulders felt tight, as if I’d been holding myself in a position for too long. My neck ached faintly. I rolled it once, annoyed at my own body for reacting before my mind had caught up.
I closed the file before Dave opened the door.
Santiago entered without resistance.
That was the first thing I noticed.
No hesitation. No performance. No attempt to test the room. He moved as if he already knew exactly how much space he was allowed to take—and had decided not to take an inch more.
He sat when instructed.
Didn’t look at me.
The silence felt deliberate.
I stayed behind the desk, fingers resting against the cool surface, grounding myself in something solid. My pulse was steady enough, but I was suddenly aware of my breathing—too shallow, too quick. I forced it slower.
“You’ve been quiet,” I said finally.
“So have you,” he replied.
His voice was steady. Lower than before. No edge.
“That’s not an answer.”
“No,” he agreed. “It’s an observation.”
I opened a fresh page in my notebook. The soft scrape of paper sounded louder than it should have. My pen felt heavier in my hand than usual, as if my grip had tightened without me noticing.
“You haven’t caused any trouble since our last session,” I said. “No reports. No incidents.”
“I told you I wouldn’t.”
“You’ve made promises before.”
“Yes,” he said calmly. “But this one mattered.”
That made me look up.
My stomach tightened—not sharply, not painfully. Just enough to register. He was watching me now. Not intensely. Not invasively. Simply present. As if he had nowhere else to be and no intention of rushing the moment.
“Why?” I asked.
A pause.
“Because you didn’t have to bring me back,” he said. “And you did.”
The words landed low in my chest. I felt them there, like a pressure I couldn’t quite shift.
“That was a professional decision.”
“Maybe,” he said. “Or maybe you wanted to see if I would behave.”
The word irritated me more than it should have. I shifted slightly in my chair, crossing my legs, then uncrossing them again when the position felt wrong.
“You don’t get rewarded for compliance.”
“I know,” he said. “That’s why this isn’t about reward.”
Silence followed.
He didn’t fill it.
I felt it then—the weight of it. My shoulders crept upward almost imperceptibly, tension gathering at the base of my neck. I forced them down, exhaling slowly through my nose.
“Last time,” I said carefully, “you told me I was making a mistake.”
“Yes.”
“What did you mean by that?”
He adjusted in the chair, the metal restraints shifting softly against his wrists. Not an attempt to escape—just enough movement to settle himself. The sound went straight through me, raising the fine hairs along my arms.
“I meant,” he said after a moment, “that you’re closer than you think.”
“To what?”
“To choosing.”
My pen stilled mid-word.
“That’s not how this works.”
“It is,” he replied. “You just don’t like admitting when pretending stops working.”
I closed the notebook.
Slowly.
The small movement made my pulse jump, quick and sudden, before settling again.
“You don’t know anything about my choices,” I said.
“No,” he agreed. “But I know what it looks like when someone starts weighing consequences instead of rules.”
His gaze didn’t waver.
“And you’ve been doing that since the moment you realized I wasn’t trying to win.”
“Win what?”
“You,” he said simply.
The word hit lower this time. My breath caught—just for a second. I stood before I’d fully decided to, the motion sharper than necessary, my chair scraping softly against the floor.
I moved around the desk.
Stopped where he could see me without turning his head.
Standing this close, I became acutely aware of my own body. The warmth in my palms. The faint tremor in my fingers that I curled into my fists to hide. The way my heartbeat seemed louder here, as if proximity had amplified it.
“You don’t get to frame this,” I said quietly. “You don’t get to assign meaning to my actions.”
“And yet,” he replied, “you’re standing there instead of ending the session.”
I didn’t step back.
My pulse quickened, a steady thrum I felt behind my ribs. Not panic. Something else. Focused. Narrow.
“What do you want?” I asked.
He frowned slightly, as if the question genuinely surprised him.
“I want consistency,” he said. “One person. One voice. Something that doesn’t change depending on who’s watching.”
“That’s not something I can give you.”
“I know,” he said. “That’s why it matters that you’re trying not to.”
A strange heat crept up my neck. I shifted my weight from one foot to the other, grounding myself again.
“You’re not here to be understood,” I said. “You’re here to be evaluated.”
“And you’re not supposed to care,” he replied. “Yet here we are.”
I should have ended it then.
Instead, I asked, “Do you understand why people are afraid of you?”
“Yes.”
No hesitation.
“Do you care?”
Another pause.
“Yes,” he said. “When it’s honest.”
My throat tightened. I swallowed, feeling the movement all the way down.
“That’s enough,” I said.
He nodded immediately.
Not disappointed.
Not defiant.
Accepting.
As Dave stepped in to remove the restraints, Santiago looked at me once more—not searching, not challenging.
Certain.
“You should stop now,” he said quietly. “Before this turns into something you can’t justify.”
The door closed behind him.
The silence that followed felt different—thicker, pressing in on my chest. I realized only then how rigid my posture had become. When I finally relaxed, it came with a wave of fatigue so sudden it made me grip the edge of the desk.
Dave lingered. “You alright?”
“I’m fine.”
The words came automatically. Too quickly.
“You sure?”
I nodded, but my body disagreed. My shoulders felt heavy. My jaw ached faintly, as if I’d been clenching it without realizing.
After he left, I sat back down slowly, staring at the empty chair.
I told myself I’d handled it well. That I’d maintained boundaries. That nothing had crossed the line.
But my body told a different story.
My pulse was still elevated. My hands felt warm, almost restless. There was a faint tension low in my abdomen that I couldn’t explain and didn’t want to name.
Santiago hadn’t tested me.
He had trusted me.
And that trust sat in my chest like a weight I hadn’t agreed to carry.
That night, at home, I stood beside my daughter’s bed longer than usual. My back ached slightly as I leaned over her, the day finally settling into my muscles. Her breathing was steady, peaceful, grounding.
I brushed her hair back gently, my fingers lingering a moment too long.
This was supposed to be about control.
About justice.
About distance.
So why did the idea of taking away the one thing he seemed to be clinging to—routine, presence, predictability—make my chest ache?
By morning, I told myself I was being careful.
That whatever decision came next would be professional.
Necessary.
But as I walked back into the prison, my body already felt braced, as if preparing for impact.
And one thought followed me relentlessly:
If I removed myself completely, he wouldn’t fight.
He would adapt.
And somehow, that felt worse.
- Writer
