He didn't plan the confrontation.
It wasn't a decision.
It was a threshold.
The next time someone asked him, carefully, "What exactly is this thing you're running?" — he didn't deflect.
He didn't soften.
He answered.
"It's a place where people can say what they're actually experiencing without being fixed."
The person blinked.
"That sounds… risky."
"Why?"
"Because people might take it too seriously."
He nodded.
"They already are."
A pause.
"I'm not responsible for what people do with what they feel," he continued. "I'm responsible for not pretending they don't feel it."
The words surprised him.
Not because they were dramatic.
Because they were clear.
The conversation didn't escalate.
It ended.
Later, his manager asked him again to come in.
"You're creating something outside the usual structures," she said.
"Yes."
"That makes people nervous."
"I know."
She studied him.
"Are you trying to change anything?"
He considered.
"No," he said. "I'm trying to stop pretending nothing is changing."
She leaned back.
That answer didn't fit into a box.
"I need to make sure this doesn't become a problem," she said finally.
He nodded.
"I understand."
He meant it.
He just wasn't willing to change what he was doing to make it easier for others not to look at it.
That night, the room was quiet.
Smaller.
But present.
Someone thanked him for not backing down.
Not for being brave.
For being steady.
The record updated when he got home.
Resistance engaged.
He smiled slightly.
"Of course."
Engagement wasn't victory.
But it wasn't silence either.
And silence was where things went to die.
He lay in bed feeling the unfamiliar mix of exhaustion and alignment.
Not easy.
But honest.