The room was smaller.
Exact.
One table. One chair. A flat surface that reflected nothing clearly enough to look into. Light without angle or mood.
Nothing here came with me unless I brought it.
A panel lit when I stepped inside. No sound.
Text appeared.
This record is voluntary.
What is given cannot be revised.
What is withheld remains active.
I read it twice.
No one entered. No one watched. Whatever happened here wouldn't be attributed to pressure or misunderstanding.
I sat.
The surface warmed slightly, not from touch, but proximity. It was aware without being interested.
More text.
Begin when ready.
I waited.
Waiting was easy. My body knew how to do that indefinitely. I noticed that before I spoke.
"I learned to stay," I said.
Nothing responded.
"I learned to listen for what was wanted."
Still nothing.
"I learned to make myself easy to keep."
The words felt thin. Accurate. They didn't dramatize themselves.
The panel dimmed slightly. Not feedback. Registration.
I continued before instinct could shape this into something careful.
"When attention appeared, I adjusted."
I felt it then, the pull to explain. To historicize. To distribute blame across inheritance and system.
The room didn't stop me.
That was the pressure.
"I changed first," I said. "So nothing else had to."
A pause followed. Long enough to choose stopping.
I didn't.
"I called it love because that word made it survivable."
The surface cooled.
Another line appeared.
Continue.
My chest tightened. Not panic. Resistance.
"I am not innocent," I said. "I am practiced."
That one cut deeper.
"I know how to be chosen. I know how to stay useful. I know how to make myself legible."
Silence held.
"I repeat this even when I see it."
I swallowed.
"I offer myself in ways that feel mutual but aren't."
The panel changed again.
Omission is recognized as preservation.
That was the blade.
"I choose some of this," I said.
Saying it removed refuge. That was the cost.
The panel cleared.
New text appeared.
Record complete.
Proceed or remain.
Nothing pushed me either way.
I sat longer than necessary.
This wasn't absolution.
It wasn't confession.
It was contact without comfort.
I stood when my body told me to.
As I left, the room reset completely. No trace of what had been said. No sign it would remember me beyond function.
That felt correct.
What I carried forward was no longer inherited.
It was mine.