25. Towards the Unknown #2
“I mean… I’d want you and Liam to come too,” he adds, rubbing the back of his neck. “I just figured… when I finish undergrad, we’ll move wherever makes sense.”
And there it is again. We’ll move. Said like it’s obvious. Said like my job, my promotion, my mortgage dreams, Liam’s daycare, my support system, my entire life are portable.
“When were you going to tell me that?” I ask.
He blinks. “Tell you what?”
“That you already made a plan.”
“I didn’t make a plan. I just thought we’d figure it out together.”
“But you assumed I’d follow you,” I say. “Like it’s simple.”
His expression shifts—hurt, confusion, something else. “You assumed we’d stay here,” he says quietly. “Is that any different?”
I stop breathing for a second. Because he’s right.
I did assume that. I thought about Liam.
About my job. About stability. I didn’t picture packing our lives into boxes because he gets accepted into a program states away.
Our assumptions collide in the space between us like two cars running a red light.
“We never talked about it,” I say.
“I know,” he admits. “I think I was scared to.”
“Why?”
“Because I didn’t want to hear you say you wouldn’t go with me.”
The honesty in his voice stings. Not because it’s wrong—but because it’s almost right. I press my fingers to my forehead.
“Reid,” I say softly, “if we’re making choices for Liam’s life—his school, his routine, his support—shouldn’t that matter? Shouldn’t my career matter too?”
“Of course it matters,” he says. “I just… I didn’t think you’d feel trapped by the idea.”
There’s the crack. The one I’ve been afraid to touch.
“I don’t feel trapped by you,” I say. “I feel trapped by not knowing what I’m supposed to sacrifice when everything feels important.”
He runs a hand over his face. “Maybe we’re overthinking this.”
“We’re not thinking enough,” I say. “We’ve been assuming the future will magically align.”
He’s quiet again. We both are. A knock comes at his dorm door. Someone calls his name. He hesitates, torn between staying and answering. It twists something in my stomach.
“You should go,” I say.
“Ame—” he starts.
“It’s fine. We’ll talk later.”
He doesn’t believe me. I don’t believe me either.
He says goodbye. I hang up first. Later, when Liam is down and the apartment is finally quiet, I sit on the couch in my half-unbuttoned costume jacket staring at the blank TV screen.
My reflection looks like someone playing a role—mother, girlfriend, professional—mask after mask after mask.
Halloween is supposed to be pretend. So why do I feel more disguised on the days I’m not wearing a costume?
Liam crashes almost immediately when we get home, worn out from the playground parade and the sugar he managed to sneak from Destiny.
I carry him to his room and settle him into bed, smoothing his hair the way he likes.
He curls his fingers around my wrist before letting go, already drifting. The quiet hits fast. It’s the kind of quiet that makes every unresolved thought louder. I stand there a little longer than usual, watching the steady rise and fall of his chest. My life makes sense in this room.
Everything I do is built around keeping him grounded, giving him something stable, making sure he never experiences the kind of constant uncertainty I grew up with.
I want him to feel safe. I want him to feel rooted.
That part never changes. But as soon as I step into the hallway, the split inside me comes back.
I leave his door cracked and walk to the bathroom, turning on the small light over the mirror.
My costume makeup is smudged from carrying Liam around and laughing too hard earlier, but all I see is the tension in my face.
I tug the headband off and set it on the counter.
Without the costume, the questions underneath have nowhere to hide.
I brace my hands on the sink and stare at my reflection.
“What am I doing?” I whisper.
Because today should’ve been easy. It should’ve been a carefree holiday.
Instead, every joke about the future, every playful nudge about who we’d “be,” scraped across something raw.
Reid wants options, movement, possibility.
He talks like life should stay open until he chooses a direction.
I carry the weight of a small human and a job that’s finally offering me something more than survival.
My future isn’t theoretical. It’s already happening.
I try to shake it off and go to the living room, collapsing onto the couch with my phone still in my hand. Reid texts a picture from his apartment—pumpkin cookies his roommate burned.
Reid: Wish we were all together tonight.
I stare at it for a long time before I reply.
Me too. It’s been a long day.
The dots appear, then disappear. A minute passes. Finally.
Reid: We’ll figure the future stuff out. I know it feels heavy lately.
My chest tightens. He means well. He always does.
But “we’ll figure it out” doesn’t give me anything to stand on.
It doesn’t tell me whether I should take the leadership position.
It doesn’t tell me if he expects me to uproot Liam’s entire life so he can follow whichever internship or grad program feels right next year.
It doesn’t tell me if love is enough to stretch across decisions that affect more than just the two of us.
It doesn’t tell me if we’re building toward the same life.
I lock my phone and set it aside. My apartment is clean.
The toys are put away. The night is quiet.
It should feel peaceful, but I feel like I’m wedged between two different futures and neither one will wait.
After a few minutes, I grab my laptop and open the email from my manager.
Amelia, let's discuss next steps for the leadership proposal. You’re ready for more.
I read it twice. I should feel proud. I should feel excited.
Instead, I feel like accepting this would mean choosing a path that doesn’t include the flexibility Reid assumes I have.
I close the laptop. A few minutes later, I call Hazel.
She answers on the second ring, still wearing the tail from whatever cat costume she decided on.
“What’s wrong?” she asks immediately.
“I don’t know,” I say. “I feel stuck.”
She listens as I explain the day, the conversations, the way Reid and I keep circling the future without ever landing on the same sentence. When I finish, she exhales softly.
“You love him,” she says. “He loves you. Relationships stretch and shift. You’ll figure it out. You guys are endgame.”
I press a hand to my forehead. “It doesn’t feel simple.”
“Of course it’s not simple,” she says. “But love doesn’t disappear because you both want different things. It just means you have to negotiate. You two have survived worse.”
I appreciate her optimism, but it hangs in the air, too light compared to the weight in my chest.
I call Destiny next. She answers while removing fake vampire teeth. “Why are you calling me after bedtime? What happened?”
I tell her everything. She doesn’t sugarcoat her response. “Do not throw away a leadership track for a man. I like Reid. He’s a good guy. But good guys still need to get their plans aligned with reality. Your job is not temporary. Liam’s childhood is not temporary. His degree is.”
I sit with that. It lands harder than I expect.
“You’re allowed to want stability,” Destiny says. “He’s allowed to want options. But those two things aren’t compatible unless you talk about them honestly, without jokes or assumptions.”
I nod, even though she can’t see me. “We haven’t done that.”
“Well,” she says, “that conversation is overdue.”
When I hang up, the apartment feels heavier.
Not suffocating—just honest. I walk back to the bathroom and flick the light on again.
My reflection looks tired, but clearer. I touch the edge of the counter, grounding myself in the physical world because everything else feels like it’s shifting.
I don’t need the full answer tonight, but I can’t keep pretending these choices don’t exist.
Reid and I love each other. That part is certain. But love doesn’t automatically solve career trajectories, childcare logistics, or long-term stability. It doesn’t magically merge two futures that haven’t been mapped together.
I take off the rest of my costume, wash my face, and pull my hair into a loose bun.
Standing there in the mirror, with all the glitter gone and all the noise stripped away, I finally see the truth without flinching: There is a big decision coming.
And I’m not sure we’re on the same page.
The chapter closes on that realization. Quiet. Unsettled. Real.