I liked the idea of that version of myself.
I liked the idea of us here—not rushed, not dramatic, not hiding in stolen nights, but existing in daylight. Making choices instead of reacting to wounds.
I pulled out my phone and opened my email.
My Austin life sat there like a stack of papers I’d been pretending not to see.
A calendar invite for a staff meeting next week. A reminder about a client intake. A note from HR about continuing education hours. A “hope you’re doing well!” from a coworker I liked, but not enough to build my entire life around.
I’d been unhappy there for a while.
Austin had been a place I went with my mother when she started disappearing in slow motion and grief became something I carried. I’d made a life there because I needed to prove I could. Because I needed to be functional. Because I needed the world to stop looking at me like tragedy was my whole identity.
But lately, that life had started to feel like clothing that fit once and didn’t anymore.
And now Charleston was in my blood. The city. The salt. The history. The version of me that wanted to be brave. The version of me that wanted to stop treating her own desires like they were something to be managed.
And yes.
Wyatt.
I didn’t romanticize it. I didn’t pretend love was enough all by itself.
But love was a compass.
And mine was pointing loud and clear.
I opened my contacts and found my supervisor’s number.
My thumb hovered.
Then I hit call before my brain could negotiate.
It rang twice.
Then: “Sophie? Hey—how’s Charleston?”
“Hi,” I said, keeping my voice steady. “It’s … good. Actually, I’m calling because I need to talk to you about work.”
There was a pause—tiny, professional. “Okay.”
I swallowed once. “I’ve been thinking a lot, and I’ve realized I’m ready for a change.”
“Okay,” she repeated, softer now. Not alarmed. Just attentive.
“I’m not coming back,” I said.
The words landed in the air like they were heavier than they sounded. Like they carried more than just a job. Like they carried an entire version of my life.
Silence stretched.
Then my supervisor exhaled. “Are you giving notice, or?—”
“I want to do this right,” I said quickly. “I can give you a full two weeks. I can wrap up what I need to wrap up. I’ll write transition notes. I can even do remote check-ins if you need them. But … I’m resigning.”
Another pause. A kinder one.
“Is this about burnout?” she asked.
