25. Towards the Unknown
TOWARDS THE UNKNOWN
Liam is dressed like a bumblebee, which should be cute, but the costume wings keep bending in strange directions and making him look like he’s been through a small war.
He doesn’t care. He keeps buzzing through the apartment with a plastic pumpkin bucket, shouting “treat!” at every closed door like the universe owes him candy on demand.
Mom drops off a small bag of chocolates she “accidentally” bought early, and Hazel stops by wearing fake vampire teeth that make her lisp every third word.
The day is light, easy, almost too easy after the last few weeks.
On the surface, everything feels normal.
I take photos of Liam on the porch, send one to Reid, and get a stream of heart emojis in return.
Neighbors wave as they decorate their yards, and the whole street smells like cinnamon and cheap caramel.
But underneath the cheer, something shifts in my chest.
It’s subtle, like a loose thread I can’t tuck back in. I keep thinking about the conversation we had after his birthday weekend—the future talk we half-started, half-aborted, because neither of us was ready to look directly at what scared us.
Reid FaceTimes us while Liam is gnawing on a lollipop that absolutely wasn’t in the approved candy list. His face fills the screen with that easy smile that still gets me, no matter how tired he looks.
He asks Liam about his wings, pretends to be terrified when Liam buzzes at him, and then looks at me with that softer look he saves for when it’s just us. I smile, but it feels tight around the edges. I don’t know if he notices or if he’s too caught up in midterm stress to pick up on it.
We take Liam to the small community event at the park.
Kids in costumes run everywhere, tripping over capes and screaming with sugar-fueled joy.
I hold Liam’s hand as he toddles toward a booth offering tiny pumpkins to decorate.
He chooses one, slaps three crooked stickers on it, and declares it “done” with the same confidence CEOs use when announcing mergers.
People laugh, compliment him, and for a moment I let myself breathe in the simplicity.
A holiday. A child. A family ritual that should feel grounding.
But the uncertainty still lingers. I catch myself glancing at the other parents—couples who live in the same home, whose futures hinge on shared decisions instead of separate trajectories they try to merge every few weeks.
I push the thought down, but it sits heavy in my chest, stubborn and unmoving.
Reid and I are good. We’re strong. We’re committed.
But commitment doesn’t magically align timelines or fix the distance between who we are now and who we’re becoming.
Hazel joins us midway through the event, wearing glitter devil horns that don’t match anything she has on. She hands me a cider and nudges me with her elbow.
“You good?” she asks.
“Yeah,” I say, because it’s easier than unpacking the whole emotional kaleidoscope I’m trying to sort through.
She doesn’t press, but she watches me long enough that I know she’s filing it away for later. Liam trips over his own feet and Hazel swoops in dramatically, declaring she has saved his entire career as a bee. He giggles so hard he hiccups.
The lightness is nice. Necessary. But it doesn’t quite settle me.
Back home, I set Liam in his high chair to eat mac and cheese while he continues to hum some chaotic tune he probably learned at daycare.
The apartment is warm, a little messy from costume chaos, and the kind of lived-in that should feel comforting.
Instead, my mind keeps flicking between two realities—one where I stay here and build something stable, and one where everything tilts depending on where Reid’s career ends up taking him.
When I open the fridge to grab milk, I see the note Eric stuck on my lunchbox earlier in the day.
Think about the proposal. You’d be great.
He meant the leadership opportunity, the one I’ve pretended not to obsess over since he mentioned it.
The possibility that my life could expand in a direction I didn’t expect.
The possibility that stability doesn’t have to mean stagnation.
Liam kicks his feet against the high chair, bringing me back.
“Buzz,” he says.
“You sure are,” I say, forcing a smile.
We finish cleanup and I take him upstairs to get ready for bed.
The routine is automatic—bath, lotion, pajamas, two books, the exact stuffed animal lineup.
He falls asleep quickly, worn out from too much sugar and too much excitement.
I linger a moment longer than usual, brushing my fingers through his curls.
He’s the reason I need stability. He’s also the reason I’m scared of making the wrong choice. When I finally step out into the hallway, the apartment is quiet again. I turn off the last of the lights, leave the porch pumpkin glowing in the front window, and sink into the couch.
I’m surrounded by reminders of the life I’ve built here—photos, Liam’s artwork, work documents scattered on the side table, a half-folded blanket from the morning rush.
It all feels real. Permanent. But tonight, permanence feels like both comfort and threat.
The beginning of something and the end of something else.
Everything feels like a mask—Halloween decorations outside, my smile earlier, the calm voice I use when talking to Reid about his week. All of it layered and shifting, like costumes we haven’t taken off even when the party’s over.
Reid texts a photo of his dorm’s chaotic group costume party. He’s dressed in something ridiculous—some mashup of a zombie football player and a lab experiment gone wrong. He’s smiling wide, truly wide, the kind of smile I haven’t seen in weeks. It warms something inside me. And it aches.
You look like you fell into three different costumes at once.
Reid: That’s the theme. Chaos.
Reid: Wish I was there with you two though. Liam would’ve loved this.
He had a good day. Lots of candy. Lots of buzzing. Reid: Tell him I love him.
Reid: And you. Always you.
He means it. I know he does. The love isn’t the problem. It’s everything that comes after. I stare at the screen for a long moment, letting the words settle against the noise in my head. I love him. I want a future with him. But wanting and planning are not the same language—not anymore.
Halloween feels like a metaphor I can’t shake: everyone pretending to be something else for a night, knowing the masks come off eventually. The question is whether we’ll still recognize each other when we stop pretending everything is fine. I close my eyes and exhale. Tomorrow, we’ll talk again.
Tomorrow, I’ll pretend I’m not unraveling a little more each day.
Tomorrow, I’ll try to figure out how to choose between two versions of myself.
But tonight, I sit in the dim glow of the porch light and hold the truth quietly: I don’t know where we’re going.
And I’m scared neither of us is admitting just how far apart our paths might be.
Reid texts me a picture of a cheap vampire cape from the campus bookstore during his lunch break.
The caption says: “Ten bucks. Should I commit to becoming the undead?”
I stare at it while standing in my kitchen surrounded by half-opened grocery bags, and something inside me knots.
He thinks it’s funny. It is funny. But there’s a part of me that catches on the subtext—he’s joking about becoming someone else while I’m still figuring out who I am supposed to be.
I type back something light, something safe, even though my mind is miles from Halloween.
He FaceTimes us that evening. Liam appears on the screen wearing his toddler-sized dragon costume, the one with the floppy wings and the stuffed tail that keeps brushing against the floor. Reid laughs like the sound is pulled straight from his chest. Liam beams.
I stay in the background for a moment longer than usual, watching them, feeling that uncomfortable duality again—fullness and longing mixed in the same breath. When I finally sit next to Liam, Reid looks at me like he’s been waiting to read my mood. I smile for him, but it feels thin.
“We should do a matching family costume next year,” he says while Liam roars at the camera. “Like a theme.”
“What theme?” I ask.
He thinks for a second. “Superheroes?”
I arch a brow. “Which one of us is the sidekick?”
“Probably me,” he says. “You’re the one who keeps everything together.”
His tone is light, but the compliment hits a sore spot.
I’m not keeping everything together. I’m barely holding the edges.
It’s supposed to be harmless conversation, but something shifts.
A shadow passes between the easy jokes. He brings up next October like it’s guaranteed—like we already know where we’ll all be living, working, sleeping. The assumption prickles under my skin.
Liam runs off to chase the cat, leaving the screen filled with just the two of us. Reid pushes his hair back the way he does when he’s thinking too hard.
“So, what are you wearing tonight?” he asks.
“My normal clothes,” I say. “We’re not doing anything big. Just taking Liam to a small neighborhood event.”
“You could still dress up.”
“Reid, I don’t even have time to finish the laundry, let alone coordinate a costume.”
He quiets. Not offended—more like he’s listening for whatever I didn't say aloud. His eyes soften. “Ames,” he says quietly, “you sound… tired.”
“I’m fine.”
“You don’t look fine.”
“You can’t tell that through a screen.”
“I can tell,” he says. “I always can.”
I look away. Because he’s right, and because I don’t want him to see what’s behind my eyes. The conversation shifts before it breaks. He mentions grad school again—casually, like he’s still testing how the words land with me.
“A couple of my professors think I should apply everywhere,” he says. “California, New York, Washington. Big research hubs.”
“That’s great,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady.