It's not. The two words float in her vision, calling her on it, and she know why people pull back suddenly when the boxes pop up in their vision, except Allison is almost used to it sometimes. The fact it's almost always up in hers if she is anywhere near people. It's odd to ever see more than a few words sent back, and usually only the first time someone was introduced to the Mental Network.

The two words, a reprimanded judgment in absolute silence.
Two words, repeating in the pulse of her jaw where it was held tight.

Replaced by two others, and then a sentence, and then a question. Again, and again. Little dribs and drabs and she has advice for how to use it better than that, but no one needs it. No one else here is devoid of the ability to speak. No one knows the program exists in their heads until her, and she's not even using it the way it was designed to be used.

The last question hovers there, just as devoid of feeling, and emotions, and sounds, and volume, as every other set of words he sent. Removed from real words. There's a reason she told Luther no when he asked the first day. The question hovers there and she lets it. Lets it sit there. Mocking her.

Before she writes the thing that he might be the only person she'd say it at.

Isn't that what everyone's doing about it already?
Either that, or it just didn't matter until that night. Right now.