Chapter Five
Sophia
I've also been fighting the urge to research optimal Pike Place Market navigation strategies, which is apparently what my brain defaults to when faced with unstructured social situations.
"Turner!"
I turn to see Matt jogging toward me, slightly out of breath, wearing jeans and a navy hoodie that does absolutely nothing to diminish his general attractiveness. His hair is doing that casually messy thing again.
"Sorry I'm late," he says when he reaches me. "I had to stop Tyler from doing something spectacularly stupid involving a skateboard and the dorm stairwell."
"How late are you?" I check my phone automatically. "You're three minutes late. That's within acceptable parameters for—"
"Turner."
"Yeah?"
"You don't have acceptable parameters for being late. This isn't a business meeting."
"Right. Sorry. I'm still calibrating my expectations for unstructured social activities."
He grins. "Okay, new rule. No calibrating anything today."
"What if we get lost?"
"Then we get lost."
"What if we waste time walking in circles?"
"Then we waste time walking in circles."
"What if—"
"Sophia." The use of my first name stops me mid-anxiety spiral. "What if we just see what happens?"
This is terrifying. I don't do "see what happens.
" I do careful planning and risk assessment and contingency strategies.
But looking at Matt's expectant face, I realize that this is exactly the point.
He's asking me to trust him, and more importantly, to trust myself to handle whatever unpredictable situations might arise.
"Okay," I say, and only my voice shakes a little. "Let's see what happens."
"Good. Now, rule number two: we're not allowed to eat anything unless it looks completely unreasonable."
"Define unreasonable."
"If you can identify the nutritional content without looking it up, it doesn't qualify."
I stare at him. "That's... that's actually insane."
"That's the point."
And so begins what might be the most chaotic morning of my adult life.
Pike Place Market on a Saturday is sensory overload in the best possible way.
Vendors calling out prices, the smell of fresh flowers mixing with coffee and baked goods, tourists taking photos of everything, street musicians adding layers of sound that somehow harmonize into something uniquely Seattle.
Matt navigates it all with the easy confidence of someone who's comfortable with chaos. He stops at random stalls, asks vendors about their weirdest offerings, makes conversation with complete strangers like it's the most natural thing in the world.
I follow behind him, trying to adjust to this new reality where plans are optional and small talk with fishmongers is apparently a thing people do.
"Try this," he says, appearing beside me with something that looks like a cross between a pretzel and a cinnamon roll.
"What is it?"
"I have no idea. The guy said it was 'experimental.'"
"You bought experimental food from a stranger?"
"I bought experimental food from a vendor at one of the most famous markets in the country. There's a difference."
I take a bite, and it's... actually incredible. Sweet and savory and completely unlike anything I've ever tasted. "This is really good."
"See? Sometimes not knowing what you're eating makes it taste better."
"That makes no logical sense."
"Logic is overrated."
We continue wandering, and Matt buys increasingly ridiculous food items for us to share. A sandwich filled with ingredients I can't identify. Tea that tastes like flowers. Something called a "bacon maple bar" that should be disgusting but somehow isn't.
"Okay," I say as we sit on a bench overlooking Elliott Bay, splitting what the vendor described as "fusion tacos with a Mediterranean twist," "I have to ask. Where did you learn to be so... comfortable with randomness?"
Matt considers this while chewing thoughtfully. "Growing up, I guess. My family's not really big on planning."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean my mom decides what's for dinner by standing in front of the open refrigerator and seeing what looks interesting. My dad has been 'thinking about' fixing the back porch for six years. My sister changes her major every semester."
I try to imagine this level of casual chaos and feel slightly dizzy. "That sounds stressful."
"It is, sometimes. But it's also... freeing? Like, when you don't have a master plan for everything, you get to be surprised by things."
"I don't like surprises."
"I know." He looks at me with that expression that suggests he sees more than I'm comfortable with. "When did you decide you needed to control everything?"
The question catches me off guard, probably because it hits closer to the truth than I expected. "I don't control everything."
"Sophia. You color-code your notes. You arrive twenty minutes early to everything. You have backup plans for your backup plans."
"Those are organizational strategies."
"Those are control mechanisms. There's a difference."
I want to argue with him, but he's not wrong. And there's something about the way he's looking at me—curious rather than judgmental—that makes me want to try answering honestly.
"Seventh grade," I say finally.
"What happened in seventh grade?"
"I failed a math test."
Matt waits for me to elaborate, and when I don't, he says, "Okay, I'm going to need more context. One failed math test doesn't usually lead to a lifetime of hyperorganization."
I stare out at the water, watching ferries move slowly across the sound. This isn't something I talk about. Ever. But something about this morning—the experimental food, the wandering without destination, the way Matt listens like my answer actually matters—makes me want to try.
"It wasn't just any math test," I say. "It was the placement exam for eighth-grade algebra.
I'd been figure skating competitively since I was eight, and I was...
pretty good. Regional competitions, traveling to nationals, the whole thing.
But it was expensive, and my parents made it clear that skating was conditional on maintaining perfect grades. "
"And you failed the test."
"I got a seventy-three. Which is technically passing, but not by Turner family standards.
" The memory still stings, even though it's been nearly ten years.
"My mom sat me down and explained that I'd obviously been prioritizing skating over academics, and that was unacceptable.
So no more competitive skating until I proved I could handle both. "
"Did you? Prove you could handle both?"
"I tried. I really tried. I hired tutors, studied constantly, got my grades back up. But by the time I'd proven myself academically, I'd missed a whole season of competitive skating. My skating partners had moved on, my coach had taken on new students, and I was too far behind to catch up."
"So you chose academics."
"So I chose the thing I was still good at.
" I take another bite of the fusion taco, which tastes like comfort food despite being completely unfamiliar.
"Turns out I was really good at school when I put all my energy into it.
Straight A's, academic awards, perfect attendance.
My parents were proud, and I was... safe. "
"Safe from what?"
"From failing again. From disappointing people. From having something I loved taken away because I wasn't perfect enough to deserve it."
Matt is quiet for a long moment, and I wonder if I've shared too much. This isn't exactly light conversation for a Saturday morning adventure in unoptimized living.
"That's fucked up," he says finally.
"Excuse me?"
"Your parents. Making you choose between two things you were good at instead of helping you figure out how to do both. That's fucked up."
I blink. In ten years, no one has ever characterized my parents' decision as anything other than logical. "They were being practical. Skating is expensive and time-consuming, and there's no guarantee of long-term success. Academic achievement is much more reliable."
"But you loved skating."
"Love doesn't pay for medical school."
"Medical school," Matt repeats. "Is that what you want, or what they want?"
Another question I don't expect, and don't have a ready answer for. "It's... a good career. Stable, well-respected, financially secure."
"That's not what I asked."
I think about this while watching a seagull steal someone's dropped sandwich.
The truth is, I've been focused on getting into medical school for so long that I've never really asked myself whether I actually want to be a doctor.
It's just been the next logical step in a carefully planned sequence: perfect grades, perfect MCAT score, perfect medical school, perfect residency, perfect career.
"I don't know," I admit. "I used to know. When I was little, I wanted to be a pediatrician because I liked helping people feel better. But somewhere along the way, it stopped being about helping people and started being about... proving something."
"Proving what?"
"That I was worth the sacrifice. That giving up skating was the right choice. That I could be perfect enough to deserve the things I wanted."
"Turner," Matt says gently, "you don't have to earn the right to exist."
The statement hits me like a physical blow, probably because it's something I've never considered. Of course you have to earn things. You earn good grades through studying, you earn respect through achievement, and love through being worth loving.
Don't you?
"I don't understand," I say.
"You're already enough," he says, like it's the most obvious thing in the world. "Just as you are, right now, sitting here eating weird tacos and sharing stories about seventh grade. You don't have to prove anything to anyone."
I stare at him, trying to process this concept. "But if I don't prove I'm worthy of things, how do I know I deserve them?"
"Because you're human. That's the only qualification you need."