21. Rediscovering Romance #3
You’re fine. We’re just here playing blocks.
Reid: Wish I was there.
It’s such a plain sentence, but it squeezes something in my chest. Before I can respond, he sends another message.
Reid: Call you when I get back to my room?
Yeah. I’d like that.
He adds a heart. A small one. The kind people use when they’re tired but trying. I put my phone down and focus on Liam instead. He beams proudly as he adds another block to his tower—crooked and wobbling, but still standing.
“Good job,” I tell him.
He grins and knocks it down immediately, shrieking with joy. I laugh even though part of me wants to cry from the exhaustion of everything. Life shouldn’t feel like a tug-of-war between love and responsibility, but lately, that’s exactly what it is.
By the time Liam is asleep and the apartment is quiet, the letter on the counter feels like it’s staring at me. I pick it up, reading the words again. It’s not elaborate. It’s not poetic. It’s just… us.
I know we’re figuring things out. I know we’re stretched thin. But I still choose you, every day. Even on the days when we miss each other by an inch. Even on the days when it hurts. —A
Simple. Honest. Honest in a way that scares me a little. My phone rings before I can overthink any more.
I answer, curling into the couch. “Hey.”
Reid is sitting on his dorm bed, hair damp from a shower, face tired in a way that feels too familiar. The room behind him is a mess—laundry, textbooks, loose notes—but his smile is soft.
“Hi,” he says. “Long day.”
“I can tell.”
He huffs a quiet laugh. “I thought college was supposed to be fun.”
“Who lied to you?”
“Everyone,” he deadpans.
We fall into an easy quiet for a moment. His eyes move around the screen like he’s taking me in piece by piece, memorizing me. I do the same.
“How’s Liam?” he asks in a softer voice.
“Good. He built a tower tonight. Then destroyed it without remorse.”
“That tracks.”
I smile, but the heaviness underneath it hasn’t left since last night. He notices. He always notices.
“You okay?” he asks.
And I almost say yes. The reflex is automatic, trained. But something in the way he looks at me—tired, open, vulnerable—pulls honesty out instead.
“I don’t know,” I admit.
His expression shifts—concern, confusion, something else I can’t name.
“Talk to me,” he says.
I swallow. “I just… I hate feeling like everything around us keeps getting in the way. Like the moment we try to do something for us, something interrupts.”
Reid nods slowly, eyes dropping for a second. “Yeah. I feel that too.”
“It’s not lack of effort,” I say. “We’re both trying.”
“I know.”
“But sometimes it feels like trying isn’t enough.”
He goes quiet. Not defensive—just thinking. Processing.
“I don’t want to lose what we have,” he says finally. “But I don’t want to pretend it’s easy either.”
That lands somewhere deep.
“I want to feel like we’re on the same side,” I whisper. “Even when we’re tired. Even when we’re busy. Even when it sucks.”
“We are,” he says. “I promise we are.”
“I know,” I say again, even though I’m still scared.
Then he rubs the back of his neck, sighing. “Can I say something without you taking it the wrong way?”
My stomach tightens. “Okay.”
“I feel like… you’re building this life for us. For Liam. For the future. And I’m proud of you. I mean it.” He swallows. “But sometimes I wonder how I fit into it. Or if I do.”
My breath catches.
“Reid…”
“I’m not saying I don’t. I just—” He shrugs helplessly. “Sometimes I feel like I’m stuck behind. Like you’re already ahead.”
It’s so honest it hurts.
“You’re not behind,” I say immediately. “You’re doing what you need to do.”
“Yeah,” he murmurs. “I just wish I could be there more. Make things easier. Make you feel less alone.”
“I don’t want you to feel like you’re failing me,” I say. “You’re not.”
He nods, but the worry sits in his eyes. We sit with the silence for a long moment. Not tense—just full.
Finally, I say, “We’ll figure it out. Even if it takes a while.”
“Yeah,” he whispers. “We will.”
But the promise feels slightly shaky, like both of us want to believe it but aren’t sure how to make it happen.
“Get some sleep,” I tell him gently.
“You too,” he says. “Goodnight.”
“Goodnight, Reid.”
The screen goes dark. I sit for a long time afterward, staring at the quiet apartment.
The letter still rests on the counter, waiting.
I pick it up again, run my thumb along the envelope, and this time…
I set it by the front door. Ready to be mailed in the morning.
It’s small. It’s something. It’s one solid step in a world full of shifting ground.
But as I walk to the bedroom, turning off lights, I can’t ignore the truth settling low in my chest: We’re holding on tight.
But the space between us is growing too.
It’s not breaking us. Not yet. But it’s changing us.
And I don’t know if the change is good or if it’s the beginning of a bigger storm.
I only know this: Year Three won’t be easy.
And as much as we love each other… love alone won’t be enough. Not this time.