22. Strengthening Bonds #2
Reid: Spent the entire afternoon in study purgatory. How’s my favorite guy?
I swing the camera toward Liam, who immediately poses by sticking out his tongue.
Doing… whatever this is.
Reid: Looks productive.
I snort. He never fails to find the humor in chaos.
Reid: You good? You look tired in the pic.
I debate sugarcoating it. In the early parts of our relationship, I used to do that—polish the truth, make everything look easier so he wouldn’t worry. But we promised honesty. Real honesty.
Long day. Long everything. But I’m okay. Just juggling a lot.
There’s a longer pause than usual before he responds.
Reid: I hate that you’re carrying so much because of me.
My stomach knots. This is the part that always feels like stepping through fog—wanting to tell the truth without making him feel like a burden.
I’m carrying so much because we’re building a life. Not because of you.
He calls instead of replying. I answer on the second ring.
“You don’t have to say that,” he says quietly, voice already lined with guilt.
I close the laptop and lean back in my chair. “Reid… I’m not lying. I just—I get tired. That doesn’t mean I regret anything.”
“But you shouldn’t have to sacrifice everything for me to finish school.”
“Everything?” I ask gently. “Is that what you think it is?”
He hesitates. “Some days… yeah.”
I exhale. “Reid, I’m not some martyr. I chose this. I choose us every day. But it’s okay for me to admit it’s hard. That doesn’t negate the choice.”
He’s silent for a moment, and I can hear the ambient noise of campus behind him—voices, a door swinging shut, someone laughing too loudly in the distance.
“I just want to make all of this worth it,” he finally says.
“You will,” I tell him. “But it doesn’t have to be some grand payoff. Just keep going. That’s enough.”
It’s strange—comforting him has become second nature.
Maybe because I’ve always understood how heavy expectation feels when you’re trying to rise above your circumstances.
Maybe because no one did that for me when I was his age.
And maybe because love, real love, sometimes feels like holding up both your hearts at the same time.
Later that night, after I put Liam to sleep, I clean up the living room and sit on the couch, trying to unwind. My mind drifts to the conversation, picking apart its emotional edges.
It’s becoming increasingly clear that we’re walking two very different timelines: mine full of work reviews, budgets, daycare decisions—his full of papers, deadlines, labs, projects.
They’re both important. They’re just not parallel.
When my phone rings again, I realize Reid didn’t want the earlier conversation to be the last thing between us tonight.
“Sorry,” he says. “I was walking to the dining hall and dropped my phone.”
The mental image makes me laugh. “Was it a dramatic fall or a gentle one?”
“Tragic. People stopped and stared. I’m pretty sure someone cried.”
I smile and sink deeper into the couch. “I’m glad you called back.”
“Me too,” he admits. “I didn’t like the way we left things.”
“We didn’t leave it badly,” I reassure him. “We left it honestly.”
“Still, I don’t want you thinking I don’t appreciate you.”
“I know you do.”
“And I don’t want you thinking I’m not going to keep showing up for this. For us.”
I look toward the hallway where Liam’s nightlight glows beneath his door. “I know,” I say softly. “You don’t have to prove anything to me.”
He inhales slowly. “Sometimes it feels like I do.”
“Reid—”
“No, not because of you. Because of everything.” He pauses. “I’ve got midterms next week. Then there’s the internship application I’m worried about screwing up. And the group project where I’m doing most of the work because half the guys think deadlines are just concepts.”
“So a normal semester,” I say gently.
“Basically.” He lets out a humorless laugh. “But there’s also this… pressure. Like every exam is a test of whether all our sacrifices matter. Whether I deserve what you’re doing for us.”
My heart tightens. “Hey,” I whisper. “You deserve all of it. And this isn’t a debt you owe me. This is a life we’re building together.”
He doesn’t answer right away, but when he does, his voice is softer. “You make it sound so easy.”
“It’s not easy,” I admit. “But it’s ours.”
We talk a little longer—about his classes, about a professor he likes, about how one of his roommates apparently tried to microwave a metal mug again. I tease him for living with toddlers disguised as college students, and he teases me for letting Liam clown me on a daily basis.
For a while, it feels normal. Light. Like the moments before responsibility pressed in from all sides. But when we hang up, the quiet of the apartment settles around me again. I sit there, staring at the blank TV screen, feeling proud of us… and a little frayed at the edges.
Because underneath the love and effort, a truth lingers: We’re holding on. We’re fighting for each other. But we’re also stretching. And neither of us knows how far we can stretch before something has to change.
That thought stays with me long after the call ends, weaving into the spaces between my breaths, unresolved but impossible to ignore. By the time Liam finally settles for the night, I feel like I’ve lived an entire week inside a single day.
He fought sleep like it offended him personally—first whining, then clinging, then bargaining with nonsense words and alligator tears. The moment his breaths evened out, I stood there for a minute just listening, making sure the stillness was real and not a toddler trick.
Once I’m confident he’s actually down, I slip out of his room and close the door halfway, the soft click sounding louder than it should in the quiet apartment.
It’s late—close to eleven. My back aches, and all I want is to collapse into bed and let my brain turn off.
But my phone buzzes on the dining table, the glow catching my eye.