She doesn’t pretend it didn’t happen. Doesn’t use it against me. Doesn’t withdraw.
She just… continues.
Like the worst version of me didn’t erase the rest.
My thumb hovers over the keyboard.
I type.
Me
I can practice today
I stare at it.
It looks abrupt. Unfriendly. Like I’m confirming a dentist appointment instead of asking to spend time with the woman who held my hand this morning like it belonged there.
I delete it.
Me
Today could work
That’s worse.
Uncertain. Noncommittal. Like I’m already preparing an escape route.
Delete.
I press the heel of my hand briefly against my forehead.
This is ridiculous.
I carried a grown man down Helvellyn less than an hour ago. I made decisions without hesitation. Trusted my body. Trusted my training. Trusted myself.
And yet this—this simple act of replying to her—makes me feel like I’m standing on unstable ground.
My phone buzzes.
Christina
You’re typing for a long time.
I let out a quiet groan.
Christina
This is either very promising or deeply concerning.
A reluctant smile pulls at my mouth.
Before I can overthink it again, I press call.
She answers almost immediately.
“Hey,” she says, warmth and amusement threading through her voice. “Typing taking too long?”
I lean back against the kitchen counter, grounding myself in the familiar shape of the room.