Note: Communication is such a powerful thing — when it’s real, when it’s clear, and when it comes from a place of respect. Today I’m sharing some thoughts about why speaking honestly, listening with care, and making sure we’re understood matters so much. A little communication can go a long way.
The other day, someone asked if I could help with something — but they didn’t really ask. They hinted at it. And I completely missed it. Later, when they finally said it clearly, I was like, “Ohhh, now I get it.” It wasn’t that I didn’t care — it’s just that I need people to say things directly. And honestly? I think the world would be a better place if we were all just a little more clear with each other.
There’s something really powerful about true communication. Not just talking, but really connecting — where both people listen, both people share, and both people feel understood. When that happens, even the heavy things feel a little lighter. The world feels a little more manageable.
Good communication isn’t just about saying words. It’s about making sure what we say lands — that it reaches the other person in a way they can actually understand. We can’t expect people to read our minds. We have to say it out loud, clearly enough that the message doesn’t get lost somewhere between hoping and guessing.
For me, being autistic means I genuinely need straightforward communication. Hints and polite suggestions usually fly right past me. I need — and appreciate — when people just tell me plainly what they mean. Some people worry that being direct might sound harsh or bossy, but it’s really the opposite. Clear communication is one of the kindest gifts we can give each other. It builds trust. It eases anxiety. It makes space for real connection.
When we listen with care and speak with clarity, we make the world a little softer, a little safer, and a whole lot stronger. And that’s the kind of world I want to live in — one honest conversation at a time.
This is Chapter One of my new novel-in-progress, Petals from Her Mouth, a psychological horror story about girlhood, perfection, rebellion, and remembering the version of yourself they tried to erase. I’ll be publishing chapters here as I go. Thank you for reading and for walking with Romy.
“I think I’m falling apart, but beautifully.” — Petals from Her Mouth
Chapter One: The Perfect Girl™
Romy smiled because that was the rule. Not the written one, not the kind on a sign—but the kind you learn in your bones, the kind carved in classroom corners and whispered into your scalp while your hair is being neatly brushed back behind your ears.
Smile. Sit straight. Use the right tone.
She sat in Behavioral Harmony, third row from the front. Her hands were folded on the desk. Palms dry. Nails clean. Uniform ironed. She’d triple-checked everything before she left the house.
Still, the instructor—Miss Grant—lingered too long when she passed Romy’s desk.
“Eyes forward, Miss S.”
Romy’s gaze snapped back to the front of the room. A screen glowed there: soft pink with white cursive text, a daily mantra.
“My feelings are not more important than my presence.”
Everyone repeated it together.
“My feelings are not more important than my presence.”
Romy’s voice caught in her throat.
She coughed. Something fluttered up.
She clamped a hand over her mouth.
It was just a breath. Just air. Just nerves. That’s what she told herself.
But when she pulled her hand away, there it was: A single petal.
Pale pink. Soft. Sitting in her palm like a secret.
She closed her fist around it before anyone saw.
After class, she threw it in the trash.
She didn’t tell anyone. Not her mom. Not her dad. Not even Ivy—not yet.
Because how do you explain something like that?
How do you tell someone, “I think I’m falling apart, but beautifully?”
Later, in therapy, Ms. Voss would ask if she was experiencing “creative ideation,” and Romy would lie and say no.
Because it wasn’t imagination.
And the petals wouldn’t stop.
The therapy room smelled like lavender and static.
Everything was beige—the walls, the chairs, the lamp that gave off light but no warmth. Only the couch cushions broke the monotony, a soft coral pink, the color of diluted blood.
Romy sat down without being asked. She already knew the script.
Ms. Voss appeared from behind her glass desk with her usual notepad and her smile—plastic-perfect, default setting.
“Before we begin, Romy, would you like to take a breath together?”
“I’m already breathing,” Romy said flatly.
Ms. Voss didn’t flinch. She just made a small mark on her pad.
☒ Level One Resistance – Passive Tone.
“Let’s start with your emotional check-in. On a scale from one to compliant, how are you feeling today?”
Romy said nothing.
She thought of the petal in the trash bin. The way it had floated down like it didn’t belong to gravity. The way it had felt like hers, even though it came from nowhere.
“Romy?”
“I guess I’m feeling a little… fractured.”
Another mark.
☒ Word Choice: Unstable Metaphor – Flag for Re-Eval Monitor.
“What does ‘fractured’ mean to you?”
Romy looked past Ms. Voss, to the mirror on the far wall. It was supposed to be one-way. But Romy always saw something else in it.
A flash of herself with no mouth. A twitch she didn’t make. A version of her that stayed still when she moved.
She blinked. It was gone.
“It means I don’t know who I’m supposed to be right now,” she said finally. “But I know I’m not doing it right.”
Ms. Voss smiled again. Wrote another note.
“Self-awareness is a great first step.”
“That’s not what I—” Romy stopped.
She didn’t finish the sentence. What would be the point?
Every word she gave them would be dissected, categorized, weaponized. And anyway, she was starting to feel it again—that shift in her throat. The tickle of something too soft to be swallowed.
“You’ve been flagged for a sleep scan tonight,” Ms. Voss added casually. “It’s standard, just a dream monitor. Nothing invasive.”
Romy’s stomach turned.
“Okay,” she said, barely above a whisper.
“We’re so proud of your progress,” Ms. Voss said.
Then she reached into her drawer and pulled out a small pink sticker.
“Wear this tonight. It helps the scan calibrate. And Romy?”
“Yes?”
“Make sure your dreams are… appropriate.”
That night, Romy stared at the sticker in her hand. It looked like a heart. It pulsed once in her palm.
Slowly, she peeled it open.
And stuck it to her skin.
Her mom didn’t ask about the sticker.
She saw it, though—Romy caught the flicker in her eyes when she changed into pajamas and the pink heart glowed faintly on her shoulder.
But her mom didn’t say a word.
Instead, she handed Romy a mug of tea—chamomile, honey, vanilla. The same blend she made every Sunday night, the one she called reset tea.
“It’s extra sweet tonight,” her mom said, brushing a strand of hair from Romy’s face. “I had a feeling you needed it.”
Romy tried to smile. It didn’t quite reach.
“Thanks,” she whispered.
They sat together on the edge of her bed, legs curled beneath them, the silence soft and full of breathing.
Juno jumped up and made herself a loaf between them, purring like a motor under a quilt.
“I remember when they first started doing these scans,” her mom said suddenly. “Said they were for emotional wellness. Said they’d help girls sleep better.”
“Did they help you?”
Her mom hesitated. Then she shook her head.
“They helped me pretend. Until I couldn’t anymore.”
She didn’t say anything else. Just reached for Romy’s hand and squeezed.
Romy leaned into her shoulder and breathed in the smell of safety—lavender, lemon, and something like memory.
Later, when the lights were out and the house had gone still, Romy opened her journal and wrote one line:
“I don’t want my dreams to be appropriate.”
Then she closed the book.
And closed her eyes.
And waited for sleep to take her somewhere it wasn’t supposed to.
