I was standing at the front of the lecture hall today, and for three minutes, I genuinely thought I was going to ruin my entire life. It was my final presentation for Dr. Sterling’s seminar. The room was that kind of sterile, climate-controlled cold that makes your skin feel like paper. Everyone was silent—that heavy, expectant silence that civilians think is respectful but just feels like a vacuum. I had my slides ready. I had my suit on. I looked like the model of a disciplined, "rehabilitated" veteran. But all I could feel was the pulse in my neck, thumping like a drum. Sterling was sitting in the front row, leaning back with that look of detached intellectual superiority he wears like a badge. He’s a man who has spent his entire life in rooms with four walls and cushioned chairs. He was checking his watch while I was talking about supply chain disruptions in high-risk environments. To him, it’s a case study. To me, it was three years of my life spent eating sand and watching friends get sent home in boxes because some bureaucrat forgot a decimal point. I could see the edge of his expensive leather notebook and it just... it set something off. I was mid-sentence, explaining the correlation between infrastructure and local stability, when he sighed. It wasn't even a loud sigh. Just a tiny, impatient exhale because I was taking too long on a slide. That was the moment. The urge didn't just crawl up; it SLAMMED into me. This violent, irrational, desperate need to stop talking, lean over the podium, and just SCREAM the most vile profanity I know directly into his face. I wanted to see the blood drain from his cheeks. I wanted to shatter that smug, academic peace he lives in. My hand gripped the edge of the wood so hard I thought I’d leave a permanent mark. I kept talking, my voice sounding like it belonged to someone else—someone calm, someone professional—while inside I was a fucking riot. I was imagining the chair hitting the floor. I was imagining the look on the faces of the twenty-year-old kids in the rows behind him. They think they know what stress is because they pulled an all-nighter for a midterm. They have no idea. None of them do. They live in this bubble where the worst thing that happens is a bad grade or a late Uber. I could feel the sweat starting to prickle under my arms. It’s the same feeling I used to get right before a breach, that sharp, metallic taste in the back of your throat. But there’s no outlet here. In the service, anger had a purpose. It was fuel. You could use it to move, to keep your head up, to survive. Here, it’s just a liability. If I had screamed what I wanted to scream, I wouldn't be "passionate" or "intense." I’d be a threat. I’d be the "unstable vet" everyone is secretly waiting for me to become. I finished the presentation. I even answered a question from some girl in the third row who asked something so vapid I can’t even remember it now. Sterling gave me a curt nod, didn't even make eye contact, and just wrote something down on his rubric. I walked back to my seat, my legs feeling like lead. My heart didn't slow down for an hour. I sat there for the rest of the period, staring at the back of his head, wondering how easy it would be to just break the silence. Just one word. One SHARP, ugly word to remind them all that the world isn't this quiet. Now it's 2 AM and I’m sitting on the floor of my kitchen because the bed feels too soft and the apartment is too quiet. I’m staring at the "A" he posted on the portal an hour ago. He liked the work. He thought it was "well-structured." He has no idea how close he came to being the target of five years of repressed, directionless fury. I keep thinking about how much I hate him for not knowing. I hate all of them for being so safe. I hate that I’m supposed to be grateful for this life, for this "opportunity" to sit in a room and be judged by people who have never risked a damn thing. The worst part is that the urge hasn't gone away. It’s just vibrating under my skin. I go to work, I go to class, I buy groceries, and I’m just... I’m performing. I’m a well-read, articulate young professional with a bright future and a solid resume. But I’m one sigh away from burning it all down. I’m tired of the quiet. I’m tired of having to act like I don’t want to rip the world apart just to see if there’s anything real underneath the politeness. I didn't scream today, but tomorrow is another day, and the silence is getting louder. I wonder if I’ll ever actually do it. Or if I’ll just spend the next fifty years clenched tight, waiting for a permission slip to be human that’s never going to come. My knuckles are still sore from gripping that podium. I hope he noticed. I hope he saw my hands shaking and thought it was nerves. I hope he feels good about himself tonight. Because I feel like a ghost in my own skin, and I'm starting to think the only way to feel alive again is to make everyone else as uncomfortable as I am.