Just Say It, Already

“I’m not impatient,” I said, already hearing her next six words stacking like loose teeth behind her lips. “I’m efficient. You people treat conversations like IKEA furniture—‘some assembly required’ but always missing the goddamn wrench.”

Cindy blinked. Her mouth was still open. Still loading.

“She’s trying to ask if the budget’s finalized,” I sighed, flipping the spreadsheet around and pointing to the answer. “Yes. Has been for twelve days. We’re already over by three thousand and change, mostly due to whatever 'mystery snacks' budget Tim keeps laundering.”

Tim made a noise like a cough into a pillow. His thoughts were bristling with panic and corn syrup.

“Next.”

Silence. That awful, quivering, democratic silence. A dozen colleagues pretending to think. Pretending not to be afraid.

I hadn’t always been able to hear them. But something had cracked. Something greasy in the space between the moment a question hung in the air... and the moment they finally spat it out.

It started as a guessing game.

Then it wasn’t guessing.

Now I know.

Not what they say.

What they mean.

What they don’t dare put into words.

What they barely know they’re thinking.

It's not psychic. It’s predictive aggression.

A honed sensitivity to the weight of every “uh,” every glance to the ceiling, every blink too long.

A rage-fueled clairvoyance.

A caffeine-born godhead.

So when they hesitate, I don’t wait.

I finish their sentences.

Then I finish the answer.

Then I keep going, because you people need to learn how to speak like you mean it or stay the hell out of meetings entirely.

Predictive Aggression.

That's what I called it.

It wasn’t mind reading. That’s too mystical, too soft.

No—this was something earned.

You stare at enough people pausing before a question, enough half-blinks and mouth twitches, you start to see the code. Not guessing—knowing.

It’s the violence of speed.

The weaponization of inference.

They stall.

You pounce.

And when they finally manage to open their mouths, you’re already three answers in, correcting their premise, undermining their assumptions, and leaving their need unspoken, unmet, and completely unnecessary.

It’s what happens when you’ve been interrupted one too many times by silence.

When you learn that a pause is just cowardice with better posture.

When you realize you can build a guillotine out of context clues and drop it mid-sentence.

Most people wait for the question.

I remove the need.

And sometimes—if I’m feeling generous—I even let them finish their first word before I destroy it.

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