The clinic smelled like disinfectant and old paper.
Ari sat on the edge of a vinyl chair, feet not quite touching the floor, hands knotted together so tightly his fingers ached. The room was quiet in the wrong way—no ambient noise to drown out the buzz inside his head. Every sound arrived sharp and isolated: the tick of a clock, the rustle of paper, the hum of fluorescent lights.
His parents sat across from him, stiff and tired. His mother's knee bounced uncontrollably. His father stared at the wall, jaw clenched.
The doctor entered without ceremony. He was efficient. Polite. Detached.
He skimmed a file as he spoke, eyes moving faster than his mouth. "Behavioral dysregulation," he said. "Impulsivity. Heightened emotional response."
Ari tried to follow, but the words slid past him, heavy and unfamiliar.
"This isn't uncommon," the doctor continued. "Some children simply have difficulty managing internal stimuli."
Difficulty.
As if it were a matter of effort.
The doctor looked at Ari briefly. Not unkindly. Not gently either.
"You have trouble controlling yourself," he said plainly. "That's something we need to address."
Ari's chest tightened.
"I try," Ari whispered.
The doctor nodded, already writing. "Trying isn't enough if people are getting hurt."
His mother flinched. His father shifted in his seat. The word hurt settled into Ari's bones.
The doctor spoke about diagnoses—terms Ari didn't fully understand, delivered with finality. Emotional regulation disorder. Possible comorbidities. Intervention strategies.
"Structure is key," the doctor said. "Clear consequences. Immediate correction."
Correction sounded like punishment.
Ari glanced at his parents. His mother's eyes were wet. His father's expression was rigid, unreadable.
"Is he dangerous?" his mother asked quietly.
The doctor paused, pen hovering.
"He can be," he said carefully. "If unmanaged."
The sentence landed like a verdict.
Ari felt something sink deep inside him—not anger, not fear, but recognition. The way a word clicks into place when it finally names something you already suspected.
Defective.
He didn't say it aloud. He didn't need to.
The doctor turned back to Ari. "You're not bad," he said, as if correcting a misunderstanding that hadn't been voiced. "You're just wired differently."
Different again.
Different never meant acceptable.
As they left the clinic, Ari's parents walked ahead of him, shoulders hunched, their conversation low and urgent. Ari followed a step behind, eyes fixed on the floor, absorbing the weight of the label that had been pressed onto him without consultation.
In the car, no one spoke.
The engine started. The radio stayed off.
Ari stared out the window, watching buildings blur past. He felt smaller than before, as if something essential had been carved out and replaced with a word he couldn't escape.
Unmanageable.
That night, he lay in bed and replayed the doctor's voice, the flat certainty with which he had been described.
Ari did not feel angry at the doctor.
He felt hollow.
If this was what he was—if this was the explanation for the noise, the rage, the loss of control—then there was no version of himself untouched by it.
He pressed his palms against his ears, not to block sound, but to contain himself.
The noise did not stop. But now it had a name.