33. Balancing Act Too long #3
Liam squeals in the background, making his animals “fight,” and the sharpness in my chest eases just enough for me to find my voice again.
“Look,” I say, softer now. “I know this is hard. And I know I haven’t been as present as I should. But I’m trying. I’m trying so hard to balance everything.”
“I know,” he repeats, but it doesn’t sound like relief. It sounds like resignation.
Before I can respond, a voice echoes faintly on his end. “Reid, let’s go!”
He exhales. “I have to get back. I’ll call you later?”
“Okay,” I say, though I already know later will be another late-night text. Another “sorry, fell asleep.” Another moment missed not because we don’t want each other but because our lives keep drifting in separate directions.
“Love you,” he says.
“I love you too.”
The call ends. The silence that replaces him feels sharper this time—not empty, but frayed. Two days later, I’m sitting in another late meeting when I feel the vibration of my phone in my pocket. I shouldn’t check it. I know I shouldn’t. But instinct wins out.
Reid: Can you talk? Just need your voice right now.
My heart pulls. I type quickly under the table.
In a meeting. I’ll call you after.
But “after” becomes forty minutes later. Then an hour. Then I’m driving home in traffic and by the time I call, it goes straight to voicemail. He texts later anyway.
Reid: Long day. It’s fine. Talk tomorrow.
Except tomorrow, I’m the one who falls asleep early, cheek pressed against my laptop. By the end of the week, we’re both frayed around the edges.
Saturday is supposed to be ours. No work.
No school. Just breathing the same air for more than twenty-four hours.
Reid drives home right after practice, and when he walks in, I feel that familiar lift in my chest—he’s still the person my body reacts to first, even when my mind is overwhelmed. He kisses me, slow, grounding.
“Missed you,” he murmurs.
I hum. “Missed you too.”
But the peace doesn’t last. We’re in the middle of planning the grocery list—something stupid, something simple—when things tilt.
“Can we get the stuff for enchiladas?” he asks.
“Not this week,” I say, pulling up the app. “They’re too much work with everything I have going on.”
“I can make them,” he offers.
“You say that,” I say, too quickly, “but you won’t have time, Reid. You’re leaving tomorrow.”
His jaw tightens. “So what? We can’t even buy ingredients now?”
I rub my forehead. “That’s not what I meant.”
“Feels like what you meant.”
“It’s not.”
“But everything sounds like that lately,” he says. “Like there’s no room for anything I want.”
“You think that’s what this is?” My voice lifts, restrained but sharp. “You think I’m shutting you out over groceries?”
He runs a hand through his hair. “No. I think… I think you’re overwhelmed. And I think I’m not helping.”
I exhale, steady but shaky. “You’re helping in the ways you can.”
“But not the ways you need,” he says quietly.
My pulse thuds. “Reid, I’m trying to build a future here. A stable one.”
“And I’m trying to build a future too,” he says. “Just because mine doesn’t start with a salary yet doesn't mean it matters less.”
That lands hard—because he’s right. And I’m right. And neither of us feels understood. His phone buzzes. Practice notes. Team scheduling. Something urgent. He glances at it, then at me, torn.
“Just answer it,” I say, the words coming out colder than I intend.
He does. And somehow, that small decision feels like a metaphor for everything else—life intruding, dividing, swallowing the space we’re trying desperately to hold between our palms. By evening, the tension hangs low and steady, not explosive but present—like a storm gathering in the distance.
We try to talk. We try to fix it. We try to smooth over the rough edges with soft words and tired apologies.
But the cracks stay. Not big enough to break us.
But big enough that we feel the draft between them.
The apartment is quiet, but not in a comforting way—more like everything is holding its breath.
I drop my keys into the bowl by the door and toe off my shoes, bracing a hand against the wall because exhaustion hits harder once the silence starts pressing in. There’s no baby monitor glow tonight, no soft hum of cartoons drifting from the living room.
Mom picked up Liam after daycare because I knew I wouldn’t make it in time. I should feel grateful, relieved even, but instead a sharp stab of guilt spreads through my chest. I’m late. Again.
The new workload isn’t impossible, but it demands a version of me I’m not sure I can sustain. Eric had pulled me aside earlier, outlining the next quarter’s deliverables with excitement on his face.
“You’ll lead this,” he said. “I trust you with it.”
And I’d smiled—because the opportunity is huge—but part of me had flinched at how much more weight it meant carrying.
Just at I walk in the house, my phone buzzes and I answer after a couple of rings.
“I didn’t know if you’d answer,” he says when I pick up, his voice low, tired.
“I’m here,” I say, dropping onto the couch. “What’s going on?”
A beat of silence, then, “I feel like I haven’t talked to you in days.”
“You talked to me last night,” I remind him gently.
“Not really,” he murmurs. “We exchanged logistics. That’s not talking.”
The remark isn’t unfair. Still, heat flickers behind my ribs—not anger, exactly, but worn-thin frustration. “I’ve had a packed week. The new project?—”
“I know,” he says quickly. “I know. I’m not trying to guilt you.”