#academic reader

history phd!reader is busy beyond reason. with spring deadlines approaching, friends asking for vacation dates, and a dissertation to write up, there is no time for pause or rest. the sheer amount of caffeine running through her veins could knock out a horse, not to mention the lack of proper sleep in the past weeks.

so when she comes down with a hacking cough and can’t get out of bed, no one is surprised. what is surprising, though, is when her roommate forces her to the ptmc, and an old classmate from undergrad opens the curtain of her er room.

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Names and recognizable public figures are used in a purely fictional context. This story does not reflect real-life events or relationships. Please do not tag or send this to the real people mentioned. This is storytelling — nothing more.

Content Notes / CW: Single parent stress · teenage conflict · emotional tension · slow-burn connection · airport meet-cute · old-fashioned romance vibes.

Reader-insert format (second person POV).

Author’s Note: This may or may not become a full story. It was just a Valentine’s Day idea that wouldn’t leave me alone, so I wrote it down before I forgot it, and then I figured I’d share it. 🤍

15 Days

The plane moves along the runway with a low vibration that slips into your body and settles there. It doesn’t ask permission. It doesn’t fade.

It travels from your feet to your chest like a steady hum, as if the metal were speaking straight to your bones.

It isn’t anxiety. It’s the kind of exhaustion that lingers. The sort that doesn’t disappear with sleep. The kind that clings to your clenched jaw, to shoulders that finally drop when no one is watching, to the habit of functioning even when something inside you has been asking for pause for a while.

You settle by the window. The seat receives you, warm and impersonal. You check your bag one last time — more out of inertia than need — and brush against the hardcover notebook where notes from the lecture still remain.

As if paper could carry what you no longer want to.

You lock your phone and set it face down.

The gesture is automatic, yet you still feel the small hollow it leaves in your stomach — that tiny shift that comes when the thread keeping you available to everyone is cut.

London is waiting. But first, eight suspended hours — a parenthesis in the air.

Eight hours where nothing is demanded of you except quiet existence.

To breathe. To exhale. To inhale again without hurry, as though your body might remember what it was like before living braced all the time.

English literature professor. Twenty-nine. Single mother.

Three quick labels. Neat. Presentable.

Three ways of saying “I’m functional” without naming the rest.

Without mentioning the precise weight you carry in your chest, that pressure no one sees but that travels with you like a second heart.

None of it shows from the outside… except perhaps in the way you breathe: short, measured breaths, like someone who has learned to hold too many things at once — and not let them fall — even when they’re heavy.

Beside you, the seat remains empty a few seconds longer than usual.

It’s nothing, you tell yourself.

And still, you register it the way you register exposed skin — an absence that somehow takes up space.

Then someone pauses. Carefully stows a backpack, as if unwilling to disturb the world — or you — and sits. He doesn’t crowd you. He doesn’t rush.

That detail tells you something before you decide whether it matters. It makes you straighten slightly, your body reacting before thought does.

You don’t look up right away. There’s no urgency.

You’re used to life arriving on its own. And to not waiting for it.

Until you see the book.

Not typical reading. Not for someone his age. Certainly not for a long flight.

And not for someone who moves with that economy of gesture, as though everything were measured: where his elbows rest, how much space he takes, how much he allows.

Everything about him is restrained.

You recognize the edition before the full title. The kind you assign in advanced courses. Fine underlining. Worn spine.

Used. Truly used.

Something in your chest shifts — small enough to irritate you for existing at all.

It isn’t posturing. It’s affection for the object. It’s someone who has actually opened it.

That draws your attention before his face does. And it makes you swallow, as though you’d been caught staring too long.

“Are you serious?” you ask without thinking much. “That? On a plane?”

He smiles faintly, not looking at you yet. The slight curve of his mouth registers as a gesture not meant for you — and still it reaches you.

“It’s the only place where no one expects me to be doing something else.”

You laugh softly. The sound leaves you gentler than intended.

The reply surprises you because it isn’t trying to be clever. It’s honest.

He closes the book, marking the page with a finger so he won’t lose his place, and only then looks up. You don’t recognize him. There’s no instant spark. No cinematic impact.

Just curiosity.

And yet you feel that gaze settle first on your chest before lifting to your face — as if reading something before actually seeing you.

He doesn’t intrude… but he stays. And something tightens between your shoulder blades.

The plane takes off. The city grows small. For a few hours, so do decisions.

Your body feels grateful before your mind does.

A while later, when the silence has grown comfortable, your phone vibrates. Once. Twice. Three times.

Your stomach tightens before you think, because you already know who it is before looking. You sigh before answering, like someone bracing to carry a familiar weight.

“Honey… what happened now?”

Your free hand rises to your neck without noticing, brushing your skin, searching for calm.

The voice on the other end is young. Tense. Too intense for fourteen — still unaware that the world doesn’t always bend, that boundaries are also a form of care.

You argue over something small that sounds enormous: schedules, limits, independence.

The same battles. New vocabulary.

You feel your jaw tighten again as you speak. The air enters measured, nearly counted, because staying calm isn’t a mood — it’s labor.

Careful phrasing. Steady tone. That balance learned the hard way.

“No, love. It’s not a punishment…” “No. I’m not ignoring you. I’m listening.” “Because I’m your mom. That’s why.”

Silence on the other end.

Then a cutting phrase.

The impact is sharp, straight to the chest. You remain still for a second, as if your body needs a moment to register that it’s over.

The call disconnects.

You stare at the phone longer than necessary. Swallow. Release the air slowly. Your shoulders drop a fraction.

As though something invisible has slipped from your grip — something that still carries weight.

“Yes… I love you too, sweetheart,” you whisper to the screen, though she can’t hear you.

Your voice is softer than you’d like. As if something shifted your center.

You lower the phone. Rest your head against the seat. Close your eyes for just a second — any longer and it might show.

“Great. You managed to make her hate you… again,” you murmur, disappointed in yourself.

No drama. Just exhaustion. You learned to phrase it like a private joke so you don’t unravel. So you don’t feel the knot climbing your throat every time arguments end like this — the knot that arrives afterward, when no one’s watching.

“She doesn’t hate you,” he says beside you, voice low.

He says it the way someone sets something simple down. Not trying to fix your life.

As if speaking from memory rather than theory.

You look at him.

“She’s just pushing,” he adds after a brief pause. “Testing whether… whether the edge is there.”

He doesn’t speak of “limits” as theory. He talks about “edge” as something tangible — something you can touch. Something you test with your fingers.

“Oh, really?” you ask, meeting his gaze. “How do you know?”

He runs his finger along the book’s edge without looking at you, as if he thinks better when his eyes are busy elsewhere.

“Because that’s what it sounds like.”

The simplicity of that disarms you more than any elaborate explanation.

He pauses again. Glances at your phone — not out of curiosity, but as if acknowledging its weight.

“And because you…” he begins, then stops for a second. “You didn’t hang up.”

He doesn’t praise you. Doesn’t package it as virtue. He simply names it.

“Your job isn’t to win,” he continues, softer now. “It’s to stay.”

He says it plainly. As fact.

Not “to endure without breaking,” not something pretty and polished.

Just: to stay. The hard part. The painful part. The part no one applauds.

Something loosens in your chest first. Then your throat.

“Do you have kids, or do you just say that because you babysit your nieces and nephews once… every three months?” you ask, sharp by reflex. Defense.

He doesn’t take offense. Just nods, as if recognizing the trap.

“Yes. I have one. And three nephews,” he says. “But that’s not why.”

He holds your gaze a second longer than usual.

“I’m saying it because… I know that voice.”

He doesn’t say, “I was difficult.” He doesn’t make himself the example.

He gives you just enough to understand he isn’t inventing this.

“And I’ve watched good parents think they were failing when… they weren’t,” he adds, as though that part angers him.

That unsettles you more than you’d like to admit.

You blink, composing yourself. Look at the book between his fingers like someone reaching for a railing.

“That’s not common reading,” you say, shifting the conversation to firmer ground. “I teach it.”

Now he looks at you with genuine interest. You notice it in the small gesture: he leans slightly toward you. Not much. Just enough.

“You teach literature?”

“I do. University level. Undergrads.”

He lets that settle. Really looks at you this time — not in a way that weighs, just… measures.

“You don’t look tired enough to survive undergrads.”

You huff a small laugh. “Give it time.”

A corner of his mouth lifts.

“That makes sense,” he says after a beat, tapping the edge of the book lightly. “I had a feeling anyone who recognized this edition would have something worth saying.”

They talk for hours — not the way people usually talk on planes. No resumes. No polished versions of themselves. No selling.

They move from subject to subject with the ease of people who aren’t trying to win anything. Time softens, as if the flight has become a room separate from the world.

“People think reading is escape,” you say at some point, “but most of the time it’s the opposite. It’s confronting things you don’t make time to think about.”

He nods slowly, thumb resting on the book’s edge. The gesture feels strangely intimate, as though he’s been doing it for years.

“That’s why people prefer summaries. Or someone else’s highlighted lines.”

“Or someone telling them what to feel,” you add. “What to think. What to hate.”

He smiles faintly — not amusement. Recognition.

Warmth rises lightly in your chest, not because of the topic — but because of how easy this feels.

“Yes,” he says. “Pre-chewed.”

They sit in silence for a few seconds. Not awkward. Productive. As though both are finishing thoughts internally.

Without noticing, they breathe in sync.

“And doesn’t it exhaust you?” he asks then. “Carrying so much. Thinking so much.”

It doesn’t sound academic. It sounds personal. It reaches you before you can shield yourself.

“Yes,” you answer plainly. “But not doing it would exhaust me more.”

He says nothing. Watches you turn the plastic cup between your fingers. Watches you breathe before answering, like someone who has learned to ration strength.

You feel seen — and for some reason, that carries weight.

“That makes sense,” he says at last. “Some people function better with real weight. Not simulations.”

They keep talking. Sometimes about literature. Sometimes about choices never made. Sometimes about small things that shouldn’t matter — and yet do.

At some point he stops reading. You stop checking your notebook. Neither comments on it.

It just happens.

As if the body decided first.

When the pilot announces descent, the interruption feels physical. Not a notice — a rupture. A sharp tug in the chest, as if someone cut the thread of that separate room.

You look out the window. He looks at you.

Tension hangs between you, held by everything that hasn’t been said.

Something fell short. You both know it. Not confession. Not promise. Just that clear, uncomfortable sense that time ran out.

He thinks fifteen more minutes might have shifted something. He doesn’t know what. He only knows he doesn’t want to lose it.

And you feel that without him saying it.

When the plane lands, you don’t exchange numbers. You don’t suggest it. He doesn’t ask.

That’s new too.

And it brings a strange relief, as if for once no one is asking for another piece of you to guarantee you exist.

They say goodbye in the aisle. The space between you feels larger than it should. You walk in opposite directions, each step carrying different weight… and then, almost at the door, he stops.

“Wait.”

His voice is stronger than before. Not loud — but enough.

You stop.

The word hits your chest first. You startle slightly. Air catches for half a second. You turn slowly, already reciting your number — by habit, by reflex, by the script of how this goes — when he lifts his hand.

“No,” he says, firm but calm.

His open palm hangs between you like a gentle boundary. He steps closer, just enough so you can hear him without stepping forward yourself.

“I don’t want your number.”

He doesn’t explain. Just states it.

As if refusing to enter the expected script of the world.

Silence stretches. He looks around — not for someone, but for the place. The door. The direction. As if fixing coordinates.

You stay there, uneasy, expectant. You feel your pulse in your temples, steady and insistent.

“This is going to sound strange,” he murmurs.

He doesn’t laugh to charm you. He laughs like someone aware he’s about to do something improper — and unable to stop himself.

For a second he looks like he might withdraw. Then he meets your eyes, and that slight shift changes the temperature in the air.

“I’ll wait for you here,” he says.

A pause.

As though the rest of the sentence catches in his throat.

“Right here. This same door. This same spot.”

He marks it with his gaze. The exit. The crowd. The exact place where you stand.

“In fifteen days.”

There’s no arrogance in the way he says it. There’s intention.

Not fate. Not romance.

Intention.

“Because you said you travel, right?” he adds, almost shyly. “And… so do I.”

He doesn’t say “frequent travelers.”

He keeps it simple. As if resisting decoration.

The smile takes a second longer than it should to appear. But it does. Not because it makes sense — but because part of you has already chosen to believe him.

You feel it in your chest before thinking, a warm pressure.

“Here?” you say, skeptical. “Wouldn’t it be easier if you just asked for my number… or gave me yours?”

The question comes out soft, careful — as though you don’t want to break the strangeness.

“Yes… that would be easier,” he admits.

He shrugs lightly, aware it sounds unreasonable and still unwilling to retract it.

“But… I like it when something doesn’t arrive already solved.”

“Oh. You like challenges,” you say, tilting your head.

The word lingers on your tongue a moment longer than necessary, as if you’re measuring its edge.

You bite your lower lip. He twists his mouth. Finally, you both laugh — a little awkward. Not broad laughter. The brief kind that surfaces when neither wants to retreat first.

“You’re definitely… unusual,” you say at last, unable to stop yourself.

The sentence escapes before filtering. Then the laughter loosens your throat.

He shakes his head, as if that isn’t entirely accurate. Silence again. He exhales too long, adjusts his backpack strap, avoids your gaze… and that tightens something in your stomach.

He isn’t leaving. He’s searching for a way to stay without looking like he wants to.

Then he looks up at you.

“And you are…”

He pauses, searching for the word. You see him swallow.

He thinks longer than he should. He could say “interesting.” He could say “different.” He chooses something else.

“Unexpected,” he says at last, with genuine honesty.

The word comes out lower than intended. Almost caught.

He doesn’t explain it. And when he looks at you again, there’s something slightly awkward in him: a subtle stiffness in his shoulders, a fraction of a second where he seems exposed — and not entirely comfortable with having crossed that line.

As if he’s said too much and can’t take it back.

You feel it too. Your pulse rises to your throat. You know that if you let it sit there, the silence will grow too large.

“I’m glad I met you too,” you reply, steering the moment toward safer ground. “Are you sure you don’t want my number?”

“Sure,” he says without hesitation.

He steps a little closer, as though sharing a secret. The distance now minimal.

“Because I don’t need it. We have a date, don’t we?”

He says it fully aware of how absurd it sounds. He exhales through his nose, trying to sound normal.

“I mean… I know you’ll come, because you said you travel often. And because you strike me as someone who keeps her word.”

There’s confidence in it — not arrogance. Instinct.

And that’s what unsettles you: not the sentence, but the certainty behind it. As though he already knows you somewhere you haven’t visited yet.

Your chest vibrates. The response slips out before you decide.

“You seem very confident…”

Your pulse rises to your throat. Your stomach tightens — not entirely unpleasant, not entirely comfortable either. A quick rush of adrenaline moving through you.

It isn’t nerves. Not exactly flirting either. It’s something else entirely. Something unarranged, its intensity neither fading nor settling. Something neither of you names — and yet something is happening between you.

You break the silence before it becomes too real.

“I mean, you’ve only known me eight hours…” you add, more to soften the intensity than to actually question him.

As if words could loosen the pressure in your chest.

He shakes his head slowly.

“No. I’m not usually this confident,” he says, already running a hand through his hair, as though he needs to dishevel himself to appear less certain.

He rubs his temple, grounding himself.

“And I don’t usually do this.”

He laughs again — this time brief, more breath than sound.

His hand gestures vaguely between you. The air thickens.

“But honestly… I don’t want to spend fifteen days texting you and sending emojis like a teenager. I’m too old for that.”

He pauses. Draws a deeper breath, as if admitting something long held back — and with you, strangely, possible to say without embarrassment.

“It’s frustrating…”

And he isn’t just talking about messages. He’s talking about distance. About what dissolves when everything becomes a screen.

His eyes brighten slightly — not with excitement, but with relief. As if speaking it aloud freed him from something.

“I don’t have social media,” he adds. “I don’t use those… smart devices.”

He shows you his old phone, nearly outdated. He holds it like something that betrays him and protects him at once.

You laugh again, because you thought your phone was old — and beside his, yours looks modern. The laugh shakes your chest.

He laughs too.

Then silence returns. Not awkward. Expectant.

And even though it’s brief, it feels suspended.

Neither wants to move first.

They hold each other’s gaze while the surrounding noise dulls — the world lowering its volume a notch. Their breathing falls into rhythm without trying.

“I like how it used to be,” he finishes, softer now. Slower.

His voice drops a register and runs down your spine, unhurried, like a touch that lingers.

“If this is going to happen, it’ll be old-fashioned. No WhatsApp. No Instagram. No Facebook. None of it.”

He lists them like public enemies. As though removing them leaves only what matters.

The sentence hangs between you.

And doesn’t fall.

This…

The word lingers on your lips. You clear your throat. The sound vibrates in your chest — contained, brief. You need to shift the scene somewhere breathable.

Humor. That one you know.

“So let me get this straight… you want to communicate like it’s the Middle Ages?” you say, amused, glancing at the book. “What’s it going to be? Smoke signals… or carrier pigeons?”

Your voice lowers slightly at the end. You sound different to yourself. Closer.

You notice it in the way he looks at you. You hold each other’s gaze more deliberately.

And that’s when you notice the blue of his eyes — which for a moment don’t seem quite so blue, as if the color shifted with the light… or the choice.

The tension doesn’t disappear. It reshapes.

No longer surprise.

Choice.

“Now I see why you like reading this… you’re very medieval,” you add. “I like that.”

You admit it like dropping a coin into a fountain without knowing if there’s a wish attached.

Now it’s his turn to clear his throat. The gesture awkward. Human. He exhales. Looks around, searching for an exit that doesn’t mean leaving.

His feet don’t move. His body doesn’t follow the goodbye.

“Trust me…” he says at last. “I have a feeling we’re going to see each other again.”

The sentence lands slowly. Not persuasive. Offered.

“I don’t know… I just feel it,” he adds.

A small pause. Enough for something to tighten in your chest.

“I have to go,” he says, and the scene fractures slightly. “By the way… my name’s Tom.”

He says it almost at the end, as if understanding he can’t disappear without leaving at least that. He offers his hand. You take it.

The formal greeting ends… and still he doesn’t move. As if the decision has been made, but the body hasn’t accepted it yet.

Then you realize you haven’t said your name.

“Oh. Y/N,” you reply. “And… I have to go too. They’re waiting for me.”

You look at each other. Then at the world. No one moves first.

And in that strange space, a quiet certainty settles. It moves through you — from head to stomach — as though your body signs something before you do.

“So here… in this exact spot,” you say, scanning the area as if memorizing a map. “I’ll see you… in fifteen days… Tom.”

You say his name for the first time.

And in that instant, it changes something.

Makes it real.

The sentence settles inside you, warm in your stomach. It stays.

You linger there a second longer.

No touch. No closeness.

And still the space between you feels charged, dense — as if something invisible is holding you still.

“Yes. Here. Right here. Good night… Y/N,” he replies.

He nods slightly. Barely visible.

You mirror it.

Then he turns. One step. Then another.

Halfway across, he pauses. Doesn’t turn fully — just enough.

One last look.

No smile. No words.

He tightens the strap of his backpack and leaves.

You remain there, motionless, feeling your body take a second longer than usual to react.

Only then do you draw a deeper breath.

And you know — without needing to say it — that the fifteen days have already begun.

Sorry for my bad English

Your English is just perfect, don't worry!

The scientists of the crew were first to be credited, their contributions forming the basis of the human's work. It was simple enough, but they were proud, enough that Perceptor and Brainstorm couldn't help mentioning it to others. Other scientifically minded bots were the first to approach after this, mostly with the intent of actually contributing to the research itself. Nautica, the medics, and others all made excellent assistants and were proud of their help.

From there, however, it went downhill.

Chatter spread the news and soon bots without a hint of experience in the area wanted in on the project, mostly to have their name on something going to another planet. After all, it was one thing to be famous amongst your own kind, but aliens? Such a thing was priceless.

Rewind offered his services documenting the research, Swerve offered refreshments, Rodimus insisted he technically made everything possible by owning the ship... We won't even mention how Whirl wanted credit for being eye candy to the team. We simply won't.

A/N: I am not a native speaker, so forgive me if there are some mistakes here or there. REQUEST ARE OPEN!!

Criminal Minds

Spencer Reid x Reader

- Dr and Dr Reid series

Part I 

Part II 

Other Criminal Minds fics!

Csi 

Greg Sanders x Reader

One Shorts

• Matching 

• Daddy's home

Greg Sanders Series Science and Vision:

Part I

Part II

Part III

Part IV

Calleigh Duquene x Reader

• My Happy Ending- Calleigh Dusquene x Reader

Da Vinci's Demons

Girolamo Riario x Reader

• coming soon!

JACKASS

Johnny Knoxville x Reader

• I swear it's not a prank

• Scale of names based on how serious the situation is

• Mr Pretty Face 🌶

• American Teddy Bear

Boku No Hero Academia

Bakugou Katzuki x Reader

• coming soon!

PISTOL

Johnny Rotten x Reader

• Everybody's Fool

BAD OMENS

Noah Sebastian x reader

Noah Sebastian series 'I love you to death but I'm drowing'

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Noah Sebastian series 'I wanna feel love again'

Part 1

Part 2

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Names and recognizable public figures are used in a purely fictional context. This story does not reflect real-life events or relationships. Please do not tag or send this to the real people mentioned. This is storytelling — nothing more.

Content Notes / CW: Single parent stress · teenage conflict · emotional tension · slow-burn connection · airport meet-cute · old-fashioned romance vibes.

Reader-insert format (second person POV).

Author’s Note: I’m still not sure if this will become a full story… read at your own risk. It started as a Valentine’s Day idea that wouldn’t leave me alone, so I wrote it down before I forgot it — and then I figured I might as well share it. 🤍

It wasn’t impulsive.

That’s the first thing he tells himself when the plane touches down and the vibration of landing finally settles in his body.

It wasn’t some teenage gesture, nor a cinematic romantic impulse. It was an adult decision. At least that’s what he keeps repeating as he walks down the airport corridor, and again as he collects his suitcase, and again when the automatic doors slide open and London’s damp air greets him the way it always does: grey, familiar, undramatic.

Nothing changed.

And yet, something did.

He leaves the airport with that strange sensation of having left something suspended in midair. It isn’t nostalgia… not yet. It’s something else. A nameless expectancy. A semicolon lodged in the middle of his chest, refusing to loosen.

A taxi. The door shuts with a dull thud.

“Home?” the driver asks.

“Yes,” Tom replies. “For fifteen days.”

He doesn’t know why he says it like that. As if it were an agreement signed with someone who isn’t there.

The taxi moves forward. Familiar streets, predictable traffic lights, the world settling back into place as if nothing happened. He takes out his phone. It vibrates almost immediately.

“You home?” Robert’s voice says before Tom can even greet him.

“For fifteen days.”

“Brilliant. Come to the bar.”

He smiles. It’s always like this. The world doesn’t wait — it summons.

As the taxi keeps moving, the phone doesn’t stop: messages from his agent, one coordination overlapping another, a reminder about something he agreed to weeks ago. A text from his mother asking if he landed safely. Another from someone suggesting coffee “when you’ve got time.”

He doesn’t answer everything. Today, only what matters.

He looks out the window. He seems the same. Functional. In motion. But something shifted on that plane, and he isn’t quite sure what.

He stops home only to drop the backpack, change his jacket, look at himself in the mirror for a second — as if checking he didn’t imagine what he remembers.

Then he goes back out.

The bar is full, not crowded — alive. Conversations overlapping. Laughter. Glass clinking.

The group is already there.

Robert lifts his glass as soon as he sees him. Sam gestures from the table. Marcus takes up too much space, as always. Bobby and Jamie are arguing about something that could be work, football, or politics — with them, the subject hardly matters.

“Thought you’d go straight to bed,” Jamie says.

“Me too,” Tom replies, sitting down.

He orders a beer. The first sip settles him back into his body.

They talk about projects moving too slowly, others collapsing without warning. About relationships that don’t work but don’t end either. About children growing too fast. About that shared feeling of always arriving late to something no one can quite define.

He laughs at the right moments. Stays quiet at the others. Observes. Speaks just enough.

And then—

“Fuck,” Marcus mutters suddenly, lowering his voice. “Mate. Don’t turn around.”

“Why?”

“Just… don’t, Tom.”

Tom turns anyway. Everyone does.

“What the hell, Marcus?”

They all look toward the entrance.

“No… sorry,” Marcus says, serious now. “My mistake.”

“You trying to be funny now?” Sam shakes his head.

“Mistake about what?” Robert asks.

Marcus presses his lips together.

“For a second I thought…” He takes a breath, a sip of his beer. “I thought she’d just walked in.”

The noise of the bar continues, but something tightens at the table. He doesn’t say her name, but the pronoun is enough.

“That’s impossible,” Robert says, checking his phone. “She’s not even in London. According to Instagram she’s in… New York.”

“Are you two back together?” Sam asks Tom.

Tom lowers his gaze to his beer.

“I don’t even know if we ever fully ended,” he replies.

The silence isn’t awkward. It’s real. Marcus exhales.

“For a second I was sure. Same way of walking in. Same distracted gesture. Thought the universe was being cruel to you, Tom. Again.”

Tom looks at his glass — not exactly because of her, but because of how easily the past shows up when you lower your guard. The conversation tries to recover.

“It couldn’t have been her anyway,” Bobby says. “She hates this bar. Only came because of Tom. And even if she were in London… it wouldn’t be tonight.”

“No,” Tom agrees. “Not tonight.”

The conversation resumes. And then it happens.

He sees her in profile for barely a second, crossing the back of the bar. The tilt of her head. The way she adjusts her coat. The hair falling in a way too specific to be coincidence.

The world sharpens.

One heartbeat. Two.

He stands abruptly as he sees her walking toward the door.

“Where are you going?” Robert asks.

He doesn’t answer. If he speaks, he’ll lose her. He moves through bodies, tables, noise. Not running — but fast, with an absurd, almost childish certainty.

The door opens. Cold air hits his face.

“Wait,” he says, not shouting.

The woman stops. Turns.

It’s not her.

The resemblance dissolves in a second. Another face. Another age. Another life.

“Yes?” the woman asks.

“Sorry,” Tom says immediately. “I’m mistaken.”

She nods politely and leaves.

The door closes.

He stands outside for a second. Breathes. Runs a hand through his hair. Lets out a humorless laugh.

He goes back in.

The table greets him with a silence that’s too obvious. Robert lifts an eyebrow.

“What was that?”

Tom takes his glass before sitting down, as if he needs the cold weight in his hand.

“Nothing. Thought it was someone.”

“‘Someone’?” Marcus leans forward.

Sam smiles slowly.

“That wasn’t ‘someone.’ That was a very specific someone. Possibly with trauma now.”

Tom exhales through his nose.

“I thought it was the woman from the plane.”

Jamie straightens immediately.

“What woman from the plane?”

Tom rests his forearms on the table, clasps his hands.

“I got back from the States today. Long flight. Shared a row. She didn’t recognize me. I didn’t recognize anything at first either.”

“Right…” Bobby stretches the syllable.

The room’s attention shifts fully to him now.

“She’s an English literature professor. University. Mid-twenties. Single mother. Teenage daughter.”

“A teenager?” Bobby clutches his chest dramatically. “That already sounds complicated.”

“Don’t start.”

“Keep going,” Robert says. “This is getting interesting.”

“They argued mid-flight. Nothing serious. Completely serious. You know how that goes. And… we just talked.”

“How long is ‘just talked’?” Marcus asks.

Tom drinks.

“Eight hours.”

Silence. Then Sam lets out a short laugh.

“Eight hours?”

“Eight.”

“That’s not talking,” Jamie says. “That’s founding an independent republic.”

“And?” Marcus presses.

Tom shrugs.

“We have a date.”

Jamie blinks.

“A date? You? With a complete stranger?”

“Explain yourself, Sturridge,” Sam says.

Tom breathes before answering.

“I told her we’d meet at the airport in fifteen days.”

No one reacts.

One second. Two.

Marcus explodes first.

“You’re joking. Right?”

“No. Why would I?”

“Fifteen days?” Sam spreads his arms. “Your schedule’s so packed you couldn’t see her sooner? You land jet-lagged and come straight to the bar, but for her — diplomatic scheduling?”

“That’s not it.”

“Am I the only one who doesn’t get this?” Marcus asks.

“You didn’t get her number?”

Tom cuts him off.

“We didn’t exchange numbers.”

Silence again. Jamie drops back in his chair.

“Ah. There it is. Wouldn’t be you without the oddities.”

“your hopelessly old-school ways” Bobby adds.

“How are you going to contact her? Smoke signals?” Sam asks.

“Sealed wax letters,” Robert adds.

Laughter. Tom doesn’t smile.

“It’s not funny.”

“Well… a little bit,” Sam says.

Tom exhales.

“There’s nothing extraordinary about it,” he says.

“Then explain what stopped you from doing what any normal man in the 21st century does when he wants to stay in touch with someone,” Sam insists.

“I didn’t ask because she travels as much as I do. It made sense to meet at the airport.”

“‘Made sense,’” Jamie repeats. “Generous phrasing.”

“It would’ve made sense to ask for her number,” Sam counters. “But no. You romanticize the Middle Ages.”

“Benefit of the doubt,” Bobby says. “Was she not that pretty?”

Tom hesitates a fraction.

“It wasn’t that.”

“Oh good,” Sam says. “That makes it worse.”

Tom’s jaw tightens.

“What if she doesn’t show?” Marcus asks quietly.

Tom shrugs.

“Then it wasn’t meant to be.”

The table erupts in laughter.

“Do you hear yourself?” Jamie says. “How old are you? Fifteen?”

“If she doesn’t show, it doesn’t mean mystical destiny,” Bobby argues. “There are a thousand reasons.”

“Maybe she met another actor who did give her his number,” Sam adds.

“Maybe her daughter got sick,” Robert offers sensibly.

“Flight delayed.”

“She changed her mind.”

“Her cat died.”

Tom listens to all of them. Says nothing.

“Rob, do something,” Jamie mutters.

“Too late,” Robert sighs. “You can’t go back in time and give her your number.”

“You messed up, mate,” Marcus grins.

Tom looks up.

“You could always call every university in London.”

“Hello, I’m Tom Sturridge and I’m looking for a twenty-something literature professor with a teenage daughter who flew in from the States today…” Marcus says, raising a finger.

“Very funny,” Tom replies dryly.

“Posters on lampposts: To the professor I discussed parenting with…” Sam adds.

“Enough. I’m leaving.”

Marcus grabs his shoulder. “Sit down.”

Tom sits again, tone shifting.

“I didn’t ask for her number because I didn’t want fifteen days of sending emojis like a late teenager. I’d rather speak to someone in person. In a café. In a park. Not glued to this thing all day.”

“No one said emojis,” Jamie mutters.

“Leave him,” Robert says.

Tom inhales.

“I didn’t. That’s it. There’s no deeper explanation.”

“So now you’re at the mercy of chance,” Robert says.

“Yes.”

“Those fifteen days are going to be interesting,” Jamie muses. “You’ve known her for hours and you’re already seeing ghosts.”

Tom doesn’t respond.

“She’ll forget in three days,” Bobby predicts. “But on day fourteen you’ll panic and pretend you don’t care.”

“No,” Tom says firmly.

Marcus studies him more closely now.

“What was so different that you didn’t ask for her number?”

Tom thinks. When he speaks, there’s no irony.

“I didn’t have to explain myself.”

That unsettles them.

“Explain what?” Jamie asks.

Tom hesitates.

“Anything. I didn’t have to sell myself. Or justify. Or be interesting.”

Robert nods slowly.

“That’s rare.”

“That’s dangerous,” Sam murmurs.

Tom drinks.

“I’m not making a romantic film out of this. I’m just going to be there. If she shows, good.”

“And if she doesn’t?”

“Then she doesn’t. End of story.”

Robert raises his glass.

“As simple as that.”

“As adult as that,” Tom replies.

Glasses clink.

After a moment, Jamie smirks.

“It’s funny that the only romantic in the group keeps choosing broken characters.”

Laughter.

Tom rolls the glass between his fingers.

“Broken has narrative,” he says at last. “It has trauma, history, contradiction. It’s in constant crisis.”

A pause.

“Integrity, on the other hand… doesn’t shout. Doesn’t victimize itself. It just is. And holding that without dramatizing it… that’s much harder.”

“Are you saying you avoid normal characters because you think you’re a bad actor?” Bobby asks.

Tom shakes his head slightly.

“I’m saying it’s easier to dramatize than to sustain the ordinary without exaggeration. It’s not the same. Playing an explosion is one thing. Making silence compelling is something else entirely.”

Robert watches him more carefully now.

“Most of your characters carry something they can’t hold. Guilt. Power. Obsession.”

“Exactly,” Tom says, leaning forward. “They’re overwhelmed. By desire. Responsibility. Fear. Expectations they never asked for.”

“Or their own intensity,” Sam adds.

Tom nods.

“And that’s comfortable to play. Because the conflict is visible. Outward. In real life… it’s quieter. More boring. More adult.”

Jamie narrows his eyes.

“And her?”

Tom looks up.

“I’m not turning her into anything. Not yet.”

“That sounds dangerous.”

“That sounds honest,” Tom corrects. “And rare. And a bit old-fashioned… I think. I don’t know. Maybe I’m talking nonsense.”

Jamie studies him.

“Your eyes lit up. Not like when someone undoes you. Like when something fits.”

Tom doesn’t deny it. He just drinks.

“I didn’t have to be interesting,” he says finally. “Or intense. Or explain why I am the way I am. Which, honestly… is quite liberating.”

Silence.

“That never happens to you,” Marcus mutters.

“Exactly.”

Later, when the bar begins to empty, Tom looks at the door one last time. Not expecting her. Just checking the world is still where he left it.

“You’re not going to bolt again, are you?” Marcus asks.

“No. Lesson learned.”

He pays. Leaves. Cold air. A cigarette.

His phone vibrates in his pocket.

He doesn’t take it out.

Fifteen days.

And for the first time in a long while, he doesn’t feel the need to rush the ending.

Next Part

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Names and recognizable public figures are used in a purely fictional context. This story does not reflect real-life events or relationships. Please do not tag or send this to the real people mentioned. This is storytelling — nothing more.

Content Notes / CW: Single parent stress · teenage conflict · emotional tension · slow-burn connection · airport meet-cute · old-fashioned romance vibes.

Reader-insert format (second person POV).

Author’s Note: I’m still not sure if this will become a full story… read at your own risk. It started as a Valentine’s Day idea that wouldn’t leave me alone, so I wrote it down before I forgot it — and then I figured I might as well share it. 🤍

You arrive.

There’s no elegant transition between an airport and your life. No fade to black. Just noise, keys, footsteps that don’t stop even though you wish they would. The keys leave marks in your palm, cold, as if you still belong to the airport. The hallway smells like detergent and metal, like elevators and someone else’s routine.

Your apartment still smells new. Fresh paint and attempted independence. Your mom is waiting at the door, coat on even though it isn’t cold. Not because she needs it, but because she still hasn’t quite adjusted to not being in charge. She doesn’t live with you anymore, but she doesn’t fully know how to leave either.

“You’re here,” she says, and it’s not a question.

“I’m here.”

She hugs you tight. Too tight. The kind of hug that isn’t just welcome home — it’s I’m not alone with all of this anymore.

“How was the flight?”

“Long.”

You’re not lying. You’re just not explaining.

Inside, the apartment smells like reheated food and clean laundry. Like the routine your mother keeps maintaining even when it’s no longer her responsibility. Your bag drops to the floor. The notebook lands on the table, open, vulnerable. Checked boxes. Schedules. Arrows. The kind of order that works until a human being breathes near it.

“She’s in her room,” your mom says, lowering her voice. “She didn’t want dinner.”

You nod but say nothing. You know exactly what that means. You knock softly.

“Maddie… sweetheart.”

Silence. From inside, something faint: fabric shifting, the bed creaking, like she moves just to remind you she’s there.

“I know you’re upset.”

More silence.

“We’ll talk tomorrow.”

“No,” she answers from inside. “We already talked, and you didn’t understand anything.”

You lean against the frame. Close your eyes for a second. Just one. There’s no time for more. You squeeze the keys again, as if you could lock life back into place with the same motion. Your jaw aches from clenching before you even speak.

“I do understand,” you say. “I don’t like it either, but it’s not safe, and you know that.”

“Of course! Because you decide everything,” she shoots back. “Always.”

The words cut because they’re not new. Because you once said the same thing, in a different tone, with different words, in another lifetime. When you were still a daughter before you were a mother.

“I don’t decide everything,” you reply. “I decide this.”

“I hate this house.”

That hurts more than it should, but this time you choose not to respond. Not to chase. Not to explain. You press your lips together and walk away before you say something you can’t take back.

Motherhood doesn’t hand out applause. It hands out consequences. The refrigerator hums like it’s tired of holding things up too. You check the alarm. Check it again. As if Monday’s sound could save you.

The night goes on. Dishes. Backpacks. A poorly folded uniform. A schedule stuck to the fridge with colorful magnets. Classes. Meetings. Emails that don’t read themselves. A school reminder about something you forgot to remember.

Your mother watches you from the kitchen.

“She’s growing up,” she says, like it’s a warning.

“I know.”

“It’s not personal.”

You laugh without humor.

“It’s always personal.”

The schedule magnet is crooked. You straighten it without thinking. As if straightening it means something.

Later, when you finally sit down, when your body starts collecting its debt, you open your laptop. Not to work — just to feel like you control something.

Your email loads slowly. Too slowly. And then it appears.

Subject: Selection Confirmation

You go still. Blink.

Open it.

Read once. Twice.

You’ve been accepted.

Your application to work at the school of your dreams has been approved. Start date: Monday next week. 8:00 a.m.

You stare at the screen like someone shifted the ground without warning. You read “8:00” like it belongs to another woman.

You’ve been selected for a job that means no more travel. Just being home. No more airports. No more suitcases. No more hotel video calls. No more rushed seminars. No more saying “goodnight” to Maddie through a screen.

More presence. Better routines. More stability for you and for her.

You applied for that. To stop living halfway. To stop parenting halfway.

And still, something inside you feels like it’s handing over a familiar version of yourself — the one who learned to exist between departures.

Your mom walks in with a cup of tea.

“Everything okay?”

You look up.

“They accepted me at the school I applied to before I left.”

“Really?”

You look back at the email.

“Yeah… they offered me the position.”

She freezes.

“Is it temporary?”

“No. The vacancy was permanent.”

“Are you going to quit the university then? The traveling?”

You close the laptop. Not because you don’t want to see it. Because you don’t yet know how to feel about it.

“I guess so.”

Your mom smiles and hugs you, proud.

“Congratulations then! Finally something stable! That’s what you wanted, wasn’t it?”

You nod automatically, but you can’t stop thinking that yes, it was.

Then you correct yourself.

It is.

You change the verb because it is.

It’s what you wanted until about ten hours ago.

So why doesn’t it feel like a celebration?

The tea smells good, but it sits heavy in your stomach. Like your body doesn’t know how to celebrate yet.

Your daughter doesn’t come out of her room. The apartment looks exactly the same — too tidy, too quiet. You have that subtle but persistent feeling that something doesn’t quite fit.

“I should go,” your mom says. “Everything’s clean and organized. I left food in the fridge for the next two days. No more. If there’s leftovers, throw them out. I don’t want you and my granddaughter getting sick from spoiled food.”

“Yes, Mom… I will.”

She leans in and kisses your forehead.

“Thank you for staying with Maddie,” you say.

“You don’t have to thank me. Call me. Don’t wait until you have to travel or need someone to watch her to talk to me.” She cups your chin the way she always has. “I know you want independence, but don’t confuse it with abandonment,” she adds, softer than strict.

You just smile.

You watch her put on her coat, gloves, hat. She moves around your apartment with a familiarity that hasn’t fully faded, even though she no longer lives there.

“Goodnight, sweetheart,” she says, kissing your forehead again. “You’re going to do great. You’re an excellent teacher, and Maddie will enjoy having you home more.”

“I’m not so sure about that,” you murmur.

“Did you love me at that age?” she asks, looking at you with tenderness and challenge.

“Of course I loved you, Mom.”

“There’s your answer. Don’t be so hard on yourself. You’re doing well. I did well.”

You smile.

“You didn’t think that when I told you I was pregnant at seventeen,” you tease.

“I’m very proud of you and of Maddie,” she replies gently.

She pauses, glancing at the kitchen like some old guilt is stored there.

You open the door. Lean against the frame while she walks toward the elevator. You blow her a kiss when she turns around. You stay there until the metal doors close and she disappears.

You sigh.

Of course you loved her at that age. It just felt like she was taking your world away when she insisted Maddie’s father wasn’t right for you.

She was right.

You understood that later. After a teenage pregnancy. After a failed attempt at living together that ended with you back in your parents’ house, working weekends at a fast-food restaurant and studying at university with no social life, learning — the hard way — that loving someone isn’t always the same as choosing well.

Later, when your mom has gone and the apartment returns to that heavier silence, your phone rings.

You glance at the screen. The name pulls a smile out of you before you can stop it.

Sky.

Your best friend since school. Thin. Smudged eyeliner even at nine in the morning. Black nails. An obese cat named Poe. An endless rotation of freelance gigs that are always “about to take off.” Still lives with her mom. Incredible at makeup. Never studied anything formal. Never wanted to. Says the system is a pyramid scheme with a robe.

The only one who was your friend when you were the brilliant shy girl in the front row, hand raised, eyes lowered. The invisible overachiever no one remembered in photos. And her — the goth girl no one picked in gym class either, but who walked down the hallway like rejection was an aesthetic choice.

You answer.

“So?” she says without greeting. “Did you arrive alive or did some LinkedIn-faced manager with leadership trauma kidnap you?”

“I arrived… I’m safe.”

“Perfect.” You hear her walking. “Now tell me: did you open the email? Did you get the result?” Dramatic pause. A chair scrapes. “I’ve had stress-induced intestinal anxiety for fifteen days because of you. Tell me. Did they accept you or do I need to burn something symbolic?”

You drop onto the couch. Look toward the hallway. No sign of your daughter. Everything is silent.

“They accepted me.”

Silence.

“What?”

“I start Monday.”

Another silence. Longer.

“That’s it? ‘I start Monday’?” Her voice jumps an octave. “Where’s the contained sobbing? The screaming? The euphoria? The acceptance speech? This was THE job of your dreams. The one with benefits. Scholarships for teachers. The one that could mean Maddie studies there without you selling a kidney. And you’re giving me ‘I start Monday’?”

You look at the ceiling.

“I’m happy. Really.”

“You don’t sound happy. You sound… contained.”

A can cracks open. A straw hits the bottom.

“Like when you said ‘it’s nothing’ and you were pregnant senior year. Remember? This is emotional recidivism, Y/N. And I’m your parole officer. So spill it. What’s wrong?”

You close your eyes.

“Sky…”

“No, sorry. Teenage trauma triggered. Continue.”

You exhale.

“I met someone… on the flight back. He sat next to me.”

Immediate silence.

“What?” she asks, too slowly.

“I met someone.”

“You?” The laugh is almost a bark. “My post-teen-pregnancy celibate friend met someone… on a plane? What’s next? Prophecies?”

“Don’t exaggerate.”

“You haven’t mentioned a man in fourteen years. Not the pediatrician, not the dad at that birthday party who survived your mental questionnaire. No one. And now you say it like ‘I bought yogurt.’”

You cover your face.

“He didn’t hit on me. We just talked. We said we’d meet in fifteen days. At the airport. Like functional adults.”

Three seconds of silence.

Four.

“IS THAT ALL?”

“Sky… don’t yell. We’re thirty, not fifteen.”

“That’s exactly why I’m yelling. My seventeen-year-old self just woke up screaming.”

Silence.

“I guess it was time,” you say quietly. “I turn thirty this year. Maddie’s older…”

Her voice softens.

“Okay… that sounds like you. So how did this man pull off the miracle?”

You smile faintly.

“I didn’t have to be interesting. Or prove I’m responsible. Or justify myself. We just… talked. And he seemed genuinely interested in what I was saying.”

Pause.

“That’s dangerous,” she says softly.

“Is he hot?” she blurts.

“Sky…”

“I’m an unemployed freelance makeup artist with a judgmental cat. Let me live through you. Is he hot?”

You sigh.

“I didn’t really notice,” you lie, remembering blue. Or gray. Something in between.

“Right. You didn’t notice but you can describe his eye color. Got it. Age?”

“Similar.”

“Divorced? Kids? Functional psychopath? Real name or serial killer alias?”

“He’s not a murderer!”

“Did he tell you that? Because that’s exactly what a convincing murderer would say.”

You laugh.

“His name is Tom. He seemed… normal.”

“Normal,” she repeats dramatically. “Ted Bundy seemed normal too, but sure. How many hours since you landed? Did Mr. Airport Romance text to check you got home safe?”

“We didn’t exchange numbers.”

Silence.

Then hysterical laughter.

“No. No. This isn’t a rom-com anymore. This is European indie cinema with a tragic budget and ambiguous ending.”

“Sky…”

“You and Tom the Normal are meeting without exchanging numbers? What century are you in? Messenger ravens? A lunar ritual at Gate 12?”

“It made sense at the time.”

“It did not. It was impulsive, cinematic, slightly irresponsible — and for the first time in your life, I am deeply proud of you.”

You laugh.

“What if he doesn’t show?”

“What if you don’t?” she shoots back.

Silence.

“You are going,” she says firmly. “I formally object to you canceling an epic love story in the name of adult responsibility.”

“I’ll think about it.”

“No. That’s been your specialty for fourteen years.”

You smile.

“I love you, Sky.”

“I know. And I expect updates every forty-eight hours. If there aren’t any, we’ll invent them.”

In the background:

“Poe! Drop that!”

“I have to go,” she laughs. “Go to sleep. Dream of Tom the Medieval.”

The call ends in laughter and domestic chaos.

You stare at your phone.

Fifteen days.

For the first time in years, chaos doesn’t feel like disaster.

It feels like possibility.

Next Part

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Names and recognizable public figures are used in a purely fictional context. This story does not reflect real-life events or relationships. Please do not tag or send this to the real people mentioned. This is storytelling — nothing more.

Content Notes / CW: Single parent stress · teenage conflict · emotional tension · slow-burn connection · airport meet-cute · old-fashioned romance vibes.

Reader-insert format (second person POV).

Author’s Note: I’m still not sure if this will become a full story… read at your own risk. It started as a Valentine’s Day idea that wouldn’t leave me alone, so I wrote it down before I forgot it — and then I figured I might as well share it. 🤍

Monday

Your first Monday. Not the first one on the calendar. The first one that matters.

The alarm goes off before the sky has fully brightened. You don’t turn it off right away. You lie there for a few seconds, staring at the ceiling, listening to the faint sounds of the house still asleep.

There is always a small vertigo to beginnings. As if the world had taken a few steps forward without telling you, and now you had to catch up to it. Not fear exactly. More that feeling of being about to walk into a room where no one knows who you are yet.

You get up.

The apartment is cold. The floor too. You walk barefoot into the kitchen, put water on to boil, and look out the window while you wait. London is still half asleep. The windows in the surrounding buildings are still dark, except for one or two isolated lights that always seem to belong to someone who never gets enough sleep. A couple of cars pass by. An early bus. The distant murmur of the city beginning to turn.

“Maddie,” you call.

No answer. You expected that. You walk down the hallway to her room.

“Maddie.”

The door opens just a crack.

“Five minutes.”

“No.”

Silence.

“Two.”

You smile.

“One.”

The door opens the rest of the way. Maddie appears with her hair a mess and that mixture of drama and resignation that only teenagers possess.

“This is psychological violence.”

“It’s Monday.”

“Same thing.”

Ten minutes later, you’re in the car. Maddie checks her phone. You drive. You don’t talk much. Not because there’s tension. Simply because the morning is still settling itself inside both of you.

“Are you nervous?” Maddie asks suddenly.

“A little.”

“About the school?”

“About the first day.”

Maddie shrugs.

“Teachers do fine. It’s the students who suffer.”

“That is not reassuring.”

“It’s statistical.”

You laugh softly. You arrive at Maddie’s school. She gets out of the car with the speed teenagers use when leaving any place where a parent is nearby.

“See you this afternoon.”

“Have a good day.”

Maddie is already walking away. She doesn’t look back. You watch her go inside. You breathe.

Now then.

Your turn.

Beginnings always arrive after small invisible rituals: dropping someone off at a school gate, closing the car door, taking one more breath before walking in.

The new school is fifteen minutes away from Maddie’s. An old brick building, with trees that look as though they were there long before anyone decided to build classrooms around them.

The branches cast long shadows across the courtyard, as if the place had spent decades watching generations of students come and go.

You park.

For a second, you stay seated in the car, looking at the entrance.

Beginnings always have something theatrical about them.

You breathe again, then get out.

The reception area smells of old wood and fresh coffee. The secretary greets you with a professional smile.

“You must be the new literature teacher.”

“That’s right.”

“The headmaster is expecting you.”

The headmaster’s office is exactly what one imagines a headmaster’s office to be: shelves full of books, diplomas on the walls, a plant someone is trying to keep alive.

“Welcome,” he says, getting up to shake your hand. “We’re very pleased to have you here.”

You talk for a few minutes. About the curriculum. About the class. About the parents’ meeting that afternoon.

“It’s a good group,” the headmaster says. “Bright. Curious. Sometimes too much so.”

“That’s usually a good sign.”

“It is.”

When you step out into the corridor, the sound of classes has already filled the building. Voices behind doors. Chairs scraping. A constant hum of teenage life.

The headmaster opens the classroom door.

The conversations die down with the kind of speed that only happens when an unfamiliar adult walks in.

“Good morning,” he says. “I’d like to introduce your new literature teacher, who will also be your form tutor this year.”

Several curious looks.

A couple of silent assessments.

Teenagers always think they’re being subtle when in reality they’re studying a new adult as if they were a newly discovered species.

A dramatic sigh somewhere in the back.

You smile.

“Good morning.”

The headmaster leaves. The door closes.

For a second, no one speaks. You set your bag on the desk.

“Right,” you say at last. “Let’s start with something simple.”

You pick up a piece of chalk.

“If you had to choose one book that everyone should read at least once, what would it be?”

Silence, but not hostile.

Expectant.

A hand goes up.

You point.

“Yes.”

“Jane Eyre.”

“Good,” you say. “Why?”

The answer is precise. Intelligent. More thoughtful than you were expecting.

“What’s your name?” you ask.

“Low.”

“Low…?”

“Low Sturridge.”

You nod.

“Very good, Low.”

The surname hangs in the air for a second before disappearing beneath the sound of shifting chairs. You write something on the board.

You don’t react to the surname. It means nothing to you. Not yet...

The class goes on.

You talk about characters. About unreliable narrators. About why some stories survive time and others do not.

When the bell finally rings, the noise from the corridor starts to seep back in under the door.

You gather your papers.

“Before you go,” you say, “remember to remind your parents that we have our class meeting today.”

Several faces pull grimaces.

“I know,” you say. “I wouldn’t be excited either.”

A few of them laugh.

The students begin to file out.

Low is one of the last to get up.

You watch her for a second, trying to remember the argument she made about Jane Eyre.

Smart.

Very smart.

Then she disappears through the door.

The room falls silent again.

First day.

And somehow, something has already begun to move that you still can’t see. Stories almost never announce when they are truly beginning.

Not yet.

The door closes behind the last student.

Silence.

A brief silence, because schools are never really silent. There are always footsteps in the corridors, lockers shutting, voices filtering in beneath the doors.

But for a moment, the classroom belongs to you.

You set the chalk down on the desk.

First day.

Nobody died. That already counts as a success.

You gather your things, sling your bag over your shoulder, and step into the corridor just as the flow of students changes direction like a river someone has abruptly rerouted.

The corridor spits you out into the staff room. First day survived. At least the first part.

And there is your phone vibrating.

A message from Sky.

You lean against a table, put your things down, go to the machine for coffee. You greet a couple of colleagues with that automatic first-day politeness. By the time you come back and sit down, the screen is already full of notifications.

It isn’t one message.

It’s a chain.

One after another.

The kind of messages that can only be produced by someone with too much free time and a natural gift for gossip.

Sky: Well? Did you survive?

For now. You reply.

Sky: No one cried.

No.

Sky: No one threw a chair at you?

No.

Sky: No one asked if Shakespeare was an influencer?

You sigh.

One of them asked whether Dracula counts as romantic literature.

Sky: That child deserves a scholarship.

You sink into a chair.

It wasn’t bad. You insist.

Sky: That sounds dangerously optimistic.

It’s only the first day.

Sky: Exactly.

Three dots appear. Disappear. Reappear.

Sky: Now tell me the important part.

What?

Sky: The medieval man.

You close your eyes for a second.

Sky…

Sky: Don’t play coy. The mysterious man from the plane. The wandering knight. Mr. “we talked about literature at thirty thousand feet.”

He is not a wandering knight.

Sky: All mysterious men are wandering knights.

He wasn’t wearing armor.

Sky: Of course he was… metaphorical armor.

You look down at your hands.

Sky: We need a plan.

We do not need a plan. Because I already have one. Seeing him in fifteen days.

Sky: Of course we need a plan. A better plan than that one.

No.

Sky: Yes.

Sky, stop!

Sky: Investigation.

No.

Sky: Observation.

No.

Sky: Elegant stalking.

Definitely not.

Pause.

Then another message appears.

Sky: Fine.

Three dots again.

Sky: Then the only thing we can do…

You can see her dangerous smile even without her standing in front of you.

Sky: …is wait.

Silence.

Then another message.

Sky: But in the meantime.

You frown.

Sky: I do have a plan.

No.

Sky: Hear me out before you judge.

You don’t reply.

Sky: Step one: we know the day. Fifteen days.

Sky: Step two: we know the place. The airport.

Sky: Step three: airports have cameras, cafés, and bored employees.

You sigh.

Sky: Step four: we get there early.

Sky: Step five: we observe.

Sky: Step six: if he appears, you act natural.

Sky: Step seven: if he doesn’t show up…

Pause.

Sky: I ask around.

You rub your forehead.

Sky, stop!

Sky: It’s a perfect plan.

You get up.

I have to go. I have classes. Bye.

Sky: Fine.

Sky: I’ll tell you the full version tonight.

Sky: Go educate young minds.

You gather your things and take two steps toward the door. Your phone vibrates again.

Sky: And if the medieval man appears…

You stop.

I’ll call you. You tell her.

Sky replies almost immediately.

Sky: 😊

No. You insist.

Pause.

Sky: I’ll call you.

Another message appears.

Sky: Because clearly you do not know how to ask for numbers.

Much against your will, you smile.

You leave the staff room with the strange feeling of having survived something you still can’t tell whether it was a battle or a rehearsal. The rest of the day goes by quickly. Too quickly for you to process it. Or perhaps at exactly the right speed to keep you from analyzing every little thing you said, how you said it, or whether that pause at the board lasted a beat too long.

By the time you look at the clock, it’s already time to pick Maddie up from school. Parents waiting, backpacks too large, conversations beginning before the adults can even ask how the day was.

London is more awake now. After midday there is always more noise. More cars. More people walking with the usual urgency of afternoons that aren’t quite afternoon yet.

You park outside the school and wait. There is always a small theatre to school pick-up. Doors opening. Groups forming. Teenagers coming out as if they have just survived an academic war.

Maddie appears a few minutes later among that flood of children and teenagers. You recognise her immediately. Not because she is the only one with that backpack or that coat, but because parents always recognise their children even when they are trying to make themselves invisible.

She comes over to the car and gets in with a dramatic sigh.

“I’m exhausted,” she says, throwing her backpack onto the back seat.

“It was only school.”

“That’s what I said,” she insists.

You sigh and pull away.

“How was your day?” you ask once the car is moving.

Maddie shrugs.

“Normal.”

“That can mean a great many things,” you tell her.

“It means no one did anything stupid enough to be memorable,” she explains, annoyed.

“That also counts as a victory,” you add.

Maddie looks out the window for a moment.

“And yours?” she asks.

“I survived,” you reply, stopping at a red light.

“Then I’d say we’re even.”

You smile. Traffic crawls forward for a couple of blocks.

“Hey,” you say at last. “I have a meeting with the parents from my class this afternoon.”

Maddie turns her head.

“Today?”

“Yes.”

“The kind of parents who ask weird questions?”

“Exactly that kind.”

“Poor teachers.” She shakes her head and looks back out the window.

“Thank you for the sympathy,” you say.

You pause.

“Grandma is coming by the house.”

Maddie nods without drama.

“Fine.”

“She’s going to stay with you while I’m at the meeting.”

“Is she bringing food?” she asks without looking directly at you.

“Probably.”

“Then everything is fine,” she says, now digging around in her bag.

The light changes. You keep driving.

“No one challenged you to a literary duel?” Maddie asks suddenly.

“Not yet.”

“Give it time. There’s always someone who thinks they’re smarter than the teacher.”

You laugh.

“One girl answered a question really well,” you say after a moment.

“About what?” Maddie asks, now interested.

“Jane Eyre.”

Maddie makes a thoughtful face.

“That is already suspicious,” she says, arching an eyebrow.

“Why?” you ask, intrigued.

“No one answers well on the first day, Mum.”

“She did,” you protest.

“Then she’s probably dangerous.”

“Probably,” you say with a laugh.

You get home. Maddie gets out first and goes inside, dropping her backpack on the floor as if she had been travelling for months. From the kitchen, you hear your mother’s voice.

“You’re home already?”

“Yes.”

Maddie appears in the kitchen doorway.

“Hi, Grandma.”

“Hello, darling.”

Your mother looks at you.

“Ready for your first parents’ meeting?”

You sigh.

“More or less.”

She smiles with the calm of someone who has already survived too many school meetings in her life.

“Parents are always more nervous than the students.”

“That does not reassure me,” you reply.

Maddie opens the fridge.

“If anyone starts arguing about Shakespeare, call me.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” you say, smiling.

You lean for a moment against the doorframe. The house is warm. It smells like food. Like routine. For one second, everything feels calm. But somewhere in your head, the memory of a plane still lives, of an unexpected conversation, and of an improbable promise made between two strangers.

Fifteen days.

You sigh.

“Well,” you say at last. “Time to meet the parents. I’m going to shower and change.”

Maddie looks up from the fridge.

“What if one of them turns out to be a medieval knight?”

You stop. Look at her, surprised.

“That would be statistically improbable.”

Maddie smiles.

“But very interesting,” she replies with a shrug.

You fall quiet, because for some reason that word stays with you as you walk to your room, and though you don’t say it aloud, the word stays with you a little longer than it should.

Next Chapter

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Names and recognizable public figures are used in a purely fictional context. This story does not reflect real-life events or relationships. Please do not tag or send this to the real people mentioned. This is storytelling — nothing more.

Content Notes / CW: Single parent stress · teenage conflict · emotional tension · slow-burn connection · airport meet-cute · old-fashioned romance vibes.

Reader-insert format (second person POV).

Author’s Note: I’m still not sure if this will become a full story… read at your own risk. It started as a Valentine’s Day idea that wouldn’t leave me alone, so I wrote it down before I forgot it — and then I figured I might as well share it. 🤍

Next Chapter

You go to bed late. You leave your phone face down. You don’t check it. You don’t look for anything. You don’t text anyone. You stare at the ceiling, thinking about airports, about promises that were never said out loud, about decisions that don’t exist yet—and still already weigh.

Fifteen days.

The phrase is still lodged in your chest, like the plane never really landed, and chaos, as always, doesn’t wait for you to be ready. Friday, 7:10 a.m. You wake up with a hangover like you drank your way through the corner liquor store—except you didn’t. What you have is a hangover made of decisions.

The apartment’s silence feels too big again. No new messages. No calls. No sign of the universe correcting the mistake. Just the refrigerator hum, and the soft echo of a closed door: Maddie’s.

You walk down the hall and knock gently.

“Maddie… can I come in?”

“No.”

She doesn’t yell. She doesn’t cry. She doesn’t argue. She gives you something worse: indifference.

“Sweetheart, I want to tell you something.”

Thick silence on the other side.

“It’s about the job. The new one I applied for. Remember?”

“Do whatever you want,” she answers from inside.

The words land like a verdict. It isn’t hate. It’s exhaustion. You rest your forehead against the door.

“It matters. We’re a team, you and me.” You pause. “I don’t want to do this alone.”

“But you decide alone.”

That one hurts, but you don’t answer—because there isn’t an answer that won’t sound like an excuse.

“Okay. Get dressed. We’re going to be late.”

You say it and go shower. You come out with your hair wet, clothes slightly crooked—you didn’t dry off properly. You keep checking the time. The kitchen smells like coffee. Maddie comes out with her headphones on and doesn’t look at you.

“Morning.”

You say it as you pull toast from the toaster. No response. She sits across from you, but she’s looking at her phone, not at you. You set the toast down. You slide the glass of milk closer. You glance at her from the corner of your eye.

“I got the job at the school I applied to,” you tell her again—straight, no drama.

Silence.

“I start on Monday.”

Maddie just chews the toast you left for her. She doesn’t look up. She’s focused on her phone. You inhale. You brace your hands on the kitchen table. When you think she won’t say anything, you hear her voice.

“Great.”

“It means I won’t be traveling so much,” you insist, lifting your coffee mug.

“Uh-huh.”

“I’ll be around more. We can do more mother-daughter stuff,” you add.

She shrugs.

“You always do what you want. You don’t need my approval.”

She gets up before finishing her milk. Normally you’d make her drink it, but today you choose your battles—especially with her. You watch her. Maddie grabs her backpack and walks toward the front door.

“Are you coming or what?” she asks. “I’m going to be late… again.”

She says it without turning to look at you. You set your mug in the sink.

“Maddie…”

She’s already opening the door.

“I’ll wait in the car.”

No room for conversation. You stand there, exhaling a little longer than usual. You look around. Today is going to be a long day, you think. You grab your coat and your bag. You already know there won’t be a goodbye kiss, or a hug, or even a glance when she gets out at school. And still—you do your job, because the man on the plane was right: you’re here to hold her up without breaking.

You step out. Your apartment door clicks shut behind you. Being an adult means you drive the same way with your hand shaking and anger lodged in your ribs, even when you’re collapsing on the inside. So you just breathe.

On the way to Maddie’s school, your phone buzzes.

Sky.

Text 1: I DIDN’T SLEEP. Text 2: I’M IN FBI MODE BUT WITH ZERO BUDGET. Text 3: THERE ARE 27 TOMS IN LONDON WITH BLUE/GRAY EYES. Text 4: I NARROWED IT TO 14 WHO MATCH A REASONABLE AGE RANGE. Text 5: I CALLED THE AIRLINE PRETENDING YOU’RE ALLERGIC TO NUTS AND WE NEEDED TO CONTACT A PASSENGER TO FIND OUT IF HE OPENED A PEANUT BAG. Text 6: IT DIDN’T WORK. Text 7: THEY SAID “CONFIDENTIAL INFORMATION” IN THE VOICE OF SOMEONE WHO HAS HEARD CRAZIES LIKE ME BEFORE.

You smile. You watch the traffic, the street, then look back at the screen.

You: Sky. Stop.

Immediately:

Text 1: NO. I’M INVESTING THE NEXT 15 EMOTIONAL DAYS IN THIS. THERE'S NO TURNING BACK

Another photo.

A badly edited collage of four different Toms.

Text: WHICH ONE IS IT? POINT. TELL ME IF ANY OF THEM HAVE MEDIEVAL VIBES.

You: None.

Sky: Then we widen the net. Did you remember any useful detail? Eyes? Watch? Acid reflux?

You: Just that he was reading the book I teach. That’s it.

Pause.

Sky: OK. UNIVERSITY PROFESSOR + LONG-HAUL FLIGHT READER + BLUE-GRAY EYES. NARROWING THE UNIVERSE.

You: Sky.

Sky: Let me live. You give me purpose.

You sigh. Turning the corner, Maddie’s school is a block away. You join the line of cars dropping kids off. It crawls.

You text Sky again: Today I’m buying clothes. Formal.

Sky: FORMAL formal? Like private-school-elite formal?

You: Yes.

Sky: I’M COMING. I NEED TO SEE THIS.

You pull up at the entrance.

You don’t even have time to turn and say goodbye before Maddie is already out of the car. She closes the door harder than necessary. Before she crosses the gate, she pauses and turns back.

She doesn’t smile.

“I get out at 1:30, but I’m staying with Chloe to finish an assignment. Pick me up at 3:30.”

It’s not a request. It’s logistics.

“Okay. Have a good day, honey,” you murmur.

She’s already not listening. She walks in without looking back.

You sit there a few seconds longer than you should, hands tight on the steering wheel. You’re not exactly sad. It’s something else—like the silence between you two has edges.

A sharp whistle snaps you out of it. The volunteer in the fluorescent vest looks at you with exhausted patience.

“Move it!”

You lift a hand. “Yeah, yeah—coming.”

You pull forward.

The day keeps going, even if you aren’t ready.

The university parking lot is the same as always. The same crooked tree on the corner. The same guard who doesn’t look up. The same gray-brick building that always felt temporary, even though you’ve been walking through its doors for years.

Visiting professor.

It isn’t your name that comes before you. It’s your function.

You get out of the car with the feeling you’re walking through something that doesn’t belong to you anymore. The hallway smells like reheated coffee, photocopies, academic routine, ungraded papers, and flights scheduled months in advance.

Colleagues stop you.

“Are you going back to the States next month?” “Did you confirm the seminar in October?”

You smile automatically.

“I’m looking into it.”

You say it, but you’re not looking into anything. You climb the stairs. Every step feels heavier than it should. Your office is the same as yesterday. The same as last year. The same as always.

The small suitcase by the desk. The books marked with colorful Post-its. The calendar with flights penciled in.

You sit down. Look at your computer. Open your email. And start typing.

Dear Dean, I’m writing to formally inform you that I have decided to accept a new academic position beginning next Monday…

You stop—not because you doubt yourself, but because it’s real now. You delete “I have decided” and replace it with “I have been selected.” You don’t want it to sound impulsive. It has to sound adult. Proper. Impeccably adult.

You keep going.

…therefore, I am submitting my resignation from my current position as visiting professor, effectively immediately...

You breathe. You add the professional parts. The polite parts. The grateful parts. The formal closing.

You hit send.

The click of the email leaving is small, but final. You stare at the screen like something might come back, but nothing does.

Your phone buzzes.

Sky again.

Text 1: DID YOU QUIT OR ARE YOU STILL IN DRAMATIC MODE?

You smile, barely.

You: I sent the email.

Three seconds.

Sky: AND? DO YOU FEEL POWERFUL OR NAUSEOUS?

You think.

You: Quiet.

This time Sky takes longer.

Sky: That’s growth. Or shock. But it sounds elegant.

You lean back and look out the third-floor window. For years, this job was your proof you could do it alone: travel alone, raise a kid alone, hold everything alone. And now you’re choosing to stay—not because you failed, but because you want stability. For you. For Maddie.

It’s supposed to feel like victory. It doesn’t. It just feels… strange.

A soft knock at the door.

It’s the dean.

You didn’t expect him to respond this fast.

“Is this true?” he asks, stepping inside, your email open on his phone.

You nod.

“Yes.”

“I thought you wanted to consolidate the exchange program.”

“I did.”

It doesn’t sound defiant. It sounds honest.

“This is a private school, right?”

You nod again.

“More stable,” you add.

He exhales, leaning a hand on the desk. He studies you.

“We’re losing a strong academic.”

It surprises you that it stings more than anything else.

“Thank you,” you say.

A pause settles between you.

“Is it final?”

Your eyes flick to the suitcase by the desk.

“Yes.”

He nods, turns, and heads for the door.

“Then we’ll do an orderly handoff. I don’t like abrupt goodbyes.”

You smile.

“Neither do I.”

When he leaves, the office feels smaller. You aren’t running. You’re closing a chapter. That’s different. Choosing to stay.

Your phone buzzes again.

Sky: OK. IMPORTANT QUESTION: ARE YOU DRESSING LIKE A STRICT PRINCIPAL OR A SOPHISTICATED TEACHER ON MONDAY?

You glance at the blazer draped over the chair.

You: Professional.

Sky replies instantly: Sexy-professional or neutral-professional?

You laugh.

You: Sky....

Sky: I’M JUST ASKING.

You check the time. There are still hours until you pick up Maddie, days until you start the new job—and days until you find out whether that airport story is really over. And yet, somewhere in your chest, that semicolon is still there. It doesn’t squeeze now.

It just waits.

When you leave the university, the air feels different. Not lighter—just different. The door shuts behind you with that dry sound things make when they end without a scene. You walk to your car with a strange feeling: not relief, not fear. Something in between.

You sit.

You don’t start the engine right away. You look at your hands on the wheel.

You resigned.

The word doesn’t make noise, but it takes up space.

Your phone buzzes again.

Sky: ARE YOU A FREE WOMAN NOW OR ARE YOU STILL IN SHOCK?

You: I’m free.

You smile. You don’t wait for her reply. You start the car and pull out. The mall is on the way home. It isn’t coincidence—it’s logistics—and it’s also a way not to think too much, because you don’t want to go back to the apartment yet.

When you get there, the mall looks oddly empty. Sky is waiting at the entrance of the store. You walk together through the racks. Every so often you stop at something that catches your eye. Within minutes, Sky has built an entire pile of outfits for you.

She marches you toward the dressing rooms—mirrors and cruel lighting—and hands you four pieces while she sits outside on a bench, the saleswoman watching like she’s at a silent audition.

You step out in a navy blazer.

Sky looks you up and down like an overdramatic fashion critic.

“More power. Less ‘mom who didn’t sleep.’”

“Sky…”

“It’s a private school. You need ‘I decide final exams’ energy.”

You try another one.

More structured.

“That one.”

“It’s too serious,” Sky says.

“Exactly,” you answer, turning to study yourself from every angle.

You want to look older. You don’t want your age to be a problem—because teaching adults who choose to be there is not the same as teaching teenagers like your daughter, who are forced to show up and are always waiting for the nearest adult to mess up.

A silence forms. Sky watches you.

“Do I look adult enough in this?”

Sky softens.

“Yes… but it’s a little big on you. I like it.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

You slip back into the booth. This time you try dress pants. You step out and do a small turn. Sky evaluates like she’s judging a competition and makes you put the blue blazer back on.

“You look like a sailor,” she says suddenly.

“What?”

“Blue and white…”

You laugh. You’re about to change again when she speaks, handing you black pants this time.

“Are you scared?”

You nod.

“More than the plane thing,” she says.

You laugh without humor, because they’re not the same kind of fear. Sky leans on the mirror.

“The plane thing is fantasy… an expectation that might never happen. This?” She gestures at the blazer. “This is real. This is your real life. You’re leaving a stable job for another one.”

You both go quiet for a moment. Then you keep going.

“What if I made the wrong choice?” you ask.

“With the job, or with Tom the Normal?” Sky asks.

You laugh again.

“With everything.”

Sky exhales.

“I’m going to say something with zero sarcasm.”

That’s how you know she means it—because Sky usually hides behind irony.

“You’re not looking for him to save you. You’re not running. You’re not desperate. You just wanted to see if something could begin without chaos.”

You swallow, because she’s right.

“But it started with chaos,” you argue.

“No,” she corrects. “It ended with awful timing. That’s not the same thing.”

You sit on the edge of the dressing room bench.

“If he showed up,” Sky says, “what do you hope would happen?”

You think.

“Nothing epic. Just… conversation. That I don’t have to explain myself.” You inhale, remembering his face, the small lines that form when he laughs. “That he doesn’t look at me like ‘former teenage mom who barely made it.’” You remember his eyes, the way he watched you with actual interest. “That he doesn’t turn me into an interesting story.”

Sky nods slowly.

“So… you want him to see you as normal.”

“Yes.”

“That’s more intimate than any romantic scene.”

Pause.

“And if he doesn’t show,” Sky says.

You shrug.

“On Monday I start a new job. Maddie will eventually stop hating me, and I’ll keep breathing… even if we never see each other again.”

Sky smiles.

“That’s the most adult thing you’ve said in your twenty-nine years of existence.”

You smile too.

“I’m tired of stories that explode. I want something that holds. That doesn’t blow up. That doesn’t disappear. That stays. I want someone beside me—without fairy tales that don’t work. Someone real. Flesh and bone.”

Sky looks at you.

“Then when you find him, don’t dramatize it.”

“I don’t know if I’ll find him,” you say, standing to try on more clothes.

Sky gathers the garments from the bench and folds them.

“It doesn’t matter whether that Tom guy shows up in fifteen days or not. Right now, the most interesting version of this story is you.”

Silence.

You look at yourself in the mirror. The version staring back looks steadier, more stable, less airport. But somewhere, still—a semicolon.

Outside the school, the parking lot is almost empty. It’s 3:32 p.m. You’re two minutes late. You notice. Maddie is already sitting on the edge of the low wall, backpack beside her, phone in hand. She doesn’t look at you when you pull up. You roll the window down.

“Hi.”

She stands without answering, walks to the car, gets in. Door shuts.

Indifference, thick as fog. You start the engine.

“Did you finish the assignment?”

“Yeah.”

“How was your day?”

“Normal.”

In the rearview mirror, she’s staring out the window.

“Maddie…”

No response.

“I don’t want you to feel like I decide everything without you.”

A long silence.

“But you do.”

No anger. Just diagnosis. You swallow.

“Sometimes, yeah. Because I’m the adult. Between the two of us.”

She turns her head slightly.

“That doesn’t mean it doesn’t affect me.”

It dismantles you a little, because you remember that feeling too. You’ve lived it.

“I know.”

You pause, choosing your words carefully. Maddie cuts in.

“Just… don’t change everything again.”

There it is. It isn’t the job. It’s the fear of constant movement. You breathe.

“I’m not changing everything. I’m trying to stay. So we can be together.”

Maddie doesn’t answer—but this time she doesn’t put her headphones back on. That’s something.

When you get home, she gets out. She pauses before shutting the car door.

“You start on Monday?”

“Yes.”

“Okay.”

It isn’t enthusiastic approval, but it isn’t rejection either. You take it as a small win. The door closes—and for the first time all day, the silence between you and her doesn’t feel sharp-edged.

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