Chapter 29 #2
Committee Member One: older woman, dark blazer, expression carefully neutral in a way that makes me want to peel it back and see what’s underneath.Committee Member Two: mid-forties, bald, glasses, a too-friendly smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.Committee Member Three: younger than the others, maybe late thirties, with a tired ponytail and the kind of gaze that suggests she’s survived some institutional nonsense of her own.
“Good morning, Dr. Vitale,” says Blazer Woman. “Can you hear us clearly?”
“Yes,” I say. “I can.”
They start with introductions. I write their names across the top of my notes because if I don’t trap them on paper, they’ll slide right out of my mind.
I don’t have bandwidth for stray details right now.
Dr. Harding—the older woman in the blazer.
Dr. Leroi—bald, glasses, too-friendly smile.
Dr. Fenster—ponytail, tired eyes. Then they repeat the official purpose of the meeting—the same phrasing from the emails, only heavier aloud.
Then: “We’d like to begin by hearing, in your own words, what led you to file this complaint.”
My heart rate spikes. My fingers tighten on the stone.
Four in. Hold. Six out.
“I submitted a proposal for a trauma-informed framework for working with the gladiators at Second Chance Sanctuary,” I say.
My voice sounds distant and clear, like it belongs to someone who isn’t actively vibrating apart.
“Over the course of several months, my supervising researcher, Dr. Patricia Blackwell, progressively incorporated my ideas, language, and structures into her own work without appropriate attribution.”
I walk them through it.
Not every line. Not every wound.
Just the framework.
Dates. Emails. The way the language shifted from “your framework” to “our model” without any clear boundary between.
I don’t name Flavius, but the truth of him is enough.
“I cross-checked my notes with a staff member at the Sanctuary who has an extremely detailed eidetic memory,” I say when they ask about my timeline.
“His recollections of specific conversations, locations, sensory details and the sequence of events matched my documentation point for point. Those records are in the file you received.”
It’s a small acknowledgment, but it grounds me.
Validation. I am not making this up in a vacuum. I have witnesses—even if they’re not on this call.
The questions come.
Some are… fine. Clarifying. “When did you first notice this shift?” “How did you address it with Dr. Blackwell?” “What outcome are you hoping for?”
Some are less fine.
“Is it possible you misunderstood the nature of collaboration?” “Do you think your communication style may have contributed to a lack of clarity?” “Why did you wait before filing?”
I answer until I feel flayed alive.
“I am autistic,” I say at one point, because apparently we’re going to do this. “Which means I am precise with language and cautious with confrontation. It does not mean I am confused about what is mine.”
Dr. Harding’s eyes soften, just a fraction.
Dr. Leroi’s cursor blinks by his name as he types notes.
“Do you have any concerns that your… perception of threat… may be heightened due to past experiences in academia?” he asks.
I swallow. Hard.
“Even if my sensitivity were heightened, the pattern of appropriation remains the same,” I say. “I’m bringing you evidence, not interpretation.”
They ask about power.
We talk about recommendation letters, fellowships, the way junior researchers’ careers hinge on the goodwill of people who can quietly eviscerate them behind closed doors.
They ask if I fear retaliation.
“Yes,” I say. “I do.”
“And yet you proceeded,” Dr. Harding says.
“Yes,” I say again. “Because if I don’t, she will do it to the next person. My silence would make it easier.”
There’s a beat of silence on the call that feels… important.
They ask if I’m open to “informal resolution.” I ask what that actually means, in plain language, and listen carefully when they explain—no admission of wrongdoing, maybe some negotiated “shared authorship,” a quiet sweep.
My stomach turns.
“I’m not interested in a solution that erases the harm,” I say. “I’m interested in accountability.”
Dr. Fenster looks down, a weary, almost-smile crossing her face before she hides it.
We go for another forty minutes.
By the time they say, “Thank you, Dr. Vitale. We’ll be in touch with our findings,” my throat feels raw and my shoulders ache from holding the same position too long.
When the Zoom window finally blips into nothing, the room goes too quiet.
For a heartbeat, I just sit.
My brain replays every answer, searching for flaws.
I should have said that differently. I shouldn’t have sounded so sharp on that last question. Did I sound angry? Did I sound hysterical? Did I sound too sure? Not sure enough?
Four in. Hold. Six out.
My hands are shaking. I close the laptop with more force than necessary and stand. My legs feel like noodles boiled past al dente.
It’s over, I tell myself.
My nervous system respectfully disagrees.
The corridor outside the conference room is dimmer. Cooler.
My shoes make soft thuds on the tile as I walk.
I don’t have a destination in mind. Just away.
Around the corner. Past the soda machine, then out the side door into the breezeway between admin and the main hall where the air is at least honest.
I don’t see him at first, but I feel him. A shape at the far end of the breezeway straightens, like a pulled wire just went slack.
“Sophia.”
My name in his mouth makes something inside me crack.
He’s leaning against the stone pillar, arms loose at his sides, as if he forced himself not to pace. As soon as he sees my face, his posture changes—broad chest lifting, attention locking in like I’m the only thing in the world that matters.
“Hey,” I say. It comes out thin.
He crosses the space between us in a few long strides, then stops just close enough that I could step into him if I wanted.
“What happened?” he asks quietly. Not demanding. Not hungry for details. Just… there.
“I answered.” My voice wobbles. “Every question. Even the ones that made me want to set my laptop on fire.”
His jaw tightens. “Did they listen?”
“I think so.” I laugh, a brittle little sound.
He studies me. His gaze is deep, searching, moving over my shoulders, my hands, the twitch at the corner of my mouth.
“You stood,” he says finally.
“I sat,” I correct, because my brain is ridiculous.
“You stood,” he repeats. “Inside. In here.” He taps his own sternum lightly. “That is what matters.”
My first tear surprises me.
One second my eyes are just burning. The next, warmth spills over my lower lid and tracks down my cheek.
“I hate crying,” I whisper.
“I know,” he says.
Another tear falls. Then another. My breath does that embarrassing stutter thing—inhale caught halfway, exhale breaking apart.
“I told the truth,” I say. “I did exactly what we practiced. I explained everything. Even remembered to talk about power dynamics instead of just saying ‘she stole my work’ like a kid complaining about crayons. And still I feel like I just handed my future to a machine that might spit it back out shredded.”
He steps closer. Close enough now that his heat wraps around me, that his chest rises and falls in a rhythm my nervous system automatically tries to sync to.
“You did your part,” he says. “You fought your fight. The rest is theirs.”
“I’m so tired,” I say. My voice cracks on the last word. “I’m tired of having to justify my existence to people who think my brain is… defective or dramatic or… convenient when it benefits them.”
His hands come up.
Not grabbing. Not overwhelming.
One settles at the curve of my jaw, callused thumb brushing the track of a tear. The other hovers for a second at my shoulder, asking silent permission.
I nod.
His palm lands, warm and steady, fingers curving around the muscle like he’s protecting it from collapsing.
“Listen to me,” he says, voice low, rough in the way that means he’s holding his own feelings like a shield so mine don’t have to protect his. “You went into their little box. You used their words, their rules. You did not vanish. That is victory.”
“They might still—” My breath hitches. “They might still decide it’s easier to side with her.”
“Yes,” he says. “They might. They might choose comfort over courage. But that is their shame, not yours. You do not carry that.”
The words land like a weight and a relief at the same time.
I close my eyes.
He doesn’t move.
His thumb keeps tracing that same path along my cheekbone—slow, grounding strokes, as if he’s reminding my skin that it’s still mine.
“You’re shaking,” he says softly.
“I know,” I say. “I feel… wrung out. Like I’m not quite back inside my body yet.”
“Then we take our time,” he murmurs. “Make more room.”
His hand leaves my shoulder only long enough to slide to the back of my neck, broad palm spanning the nape, fingers threading gently into my hair.
He leans in.
For a split second, I think he’s going to kiss me. Part of me wants that—wants to drown all of this in heat and breath and the kind of closeness that makes the rest of the world shrink.
He doesn’t kiss me.
He presses his forehead to mine.
Not a bump. Not an accident.
A deliberate, careful touch—skin to skin, brow to brow, breath mingling in the small space between our mouths.
The world narrows to that point of contact.
My eyes flutter open in surprise, then close again because the intensity of the moment is too much to look at head-on.
There’s something… ceremonial in it. Ancient. Like he’s drawing a protective circle around us.
His hands bracket the sides of my face now, thumbs at my temples, fingers warm along my jaw.
“When I fought,” he murmurs, voice so close I feel it echo through bone, “the only thing that mattered was what I did with the fear. Not whether it came.”
My breath shakes. “It came.”