I do the math without effort. My summer is open. My body is ready. The work is real.
This isn’t casual. This is her asking whether I can follow her into something demanding, off the map, without asking for anything in return.
“It’s a field segment in the Danube Delta,” she adds. “It’s…remote. Water-heavy.”
I can do remote. I can do hard. I can meet her where she is.
Before I answer, I say the thing that actually counts.
“I want to be clear,” I tell her. “If this complicates things for you, I’m not the right choice.”
The pause stretches. I’m asking if she can handle three weeks of proximity. If it will undo the equilibrium we just found.
If I’ll make it harder instead of helping.
Another beat. Longer this time.
“It doesn’t,” she says. “I wouldn’t have called if it did.”
Something in my chest loosens. She thought about this. Weighed it. Decided I wouldn’t hurt what she’s rebuilding.
That’s more than I hoped for two months ago.
I take that at face value. “Okay,” I say. “Then yes. I’m in.”
I hear it in her exhale—relief, real and unguarded.
“Thank you,” she says. “I’ll connect you with the coordinator.”
“Sounds good.”
Neither of us rushes to hang up.
“I’ll also email you some details,” she adds. “Later today.”
“Whenever,” I say.
“Okay.”
“Okay.”
The line clicks off.
I stand there for a moment, phone in my hand, sweat cooling on my skin.
Three weeks. The Delta. Water and heat and nowhere to hide if this goes wrong.
Or nowhere to hide if it goes right.
My heart skips at that second thought—hope I haven’t let myself feel in months. Not hope that she’ll forgive me. Hope that I can show her who I’m becoming. That proximity won’t break what we’re carefully rebuilding.
This isn’t getting her back.
This is being trusted with something that matters to her.
There’s a difference.
I start walking again, then jog, easing back into my pace, letting the movement burn off the excess energy. By the time I reach my place, the decision has settled into my body the way good ones do—quiet and certain.
