“The shirts are a thank you, Zachary. And they’re definitely not even close to the gift you gave me this week.”
I raise my eyebrows in question and she squeezes my hand. “The best gift was having my mother here, having the most honest conversation we’ve ever had, and leaving with a shared vision instead of a broken heart. You gave me that. You called her and said the thing I couldn’t. You created the opportunity I was too scared, too tired, too resentful to take for myself.”
Her voice is low, cracking slightly with emotion. “It was the hardest, bravest, and most loving thing you could have done. You forced me to heal a different kind of wound—one no medication can touch. That’s the gift. That’s why I love you.”
I feel a sudden, blinding heat behind my eyes. I can’t speak for a moment, overwhelmed by the depth of her gratitude. I just hold her hand tightly, memorizing the look in her eyes.
“I only did it because I love you and I saw how much it was hurting you,” I finally manage, my voice husky. “You deserved to be free of it.”
“I know,” she nods. “But sometimes, I need the occasional reminder to take care of myself—the physical self, the emotional self, the professional self. And sometimes, I need the gentlepush. You are that push, Zachary. So, I promise. I will keep listening to you and trusting you, even when it’s uncomfortable.”
She moves her gaze away, staring at the wall. “I’m sitting here, and I can’t help but wonder. If I had just been stronger, or smarter, or listened to you when you first suggested it… if I had gone to HR about Trevor and his petty nonsense, maybe I wouldn’t have gotten so stressed. Maybe I wouldn’t have gotten so sick.”
The self-blame is immediate and painful. I turn toward her, my full attention focused on pulling her out of that dark spiral.
“Stop. Absolutely not, Maya,” I say, my voice firm but gentle. “Don't you dare start the ‘what if’ game. You didn't get sick because you didn't go to HR. You got sick because you have a chronic illness, and stress is a trigger, yes, but it isnotthe cause. Trevor’s behavior is his own failure, not yours.”
I pause, letting the finality of the statement sink in. “Though, for the record, I have been thinking about the HR angle. I have some tips. I did some research while you were busy being magnificent.”
She raises one perfectly sculpted eyebrow, a familiar look of skeptical curiosity. “Research? You’ve been busy making guides and hiking and talking to Tim. When did you have time for anxiety-fueled research?”
I lean my head back against the cushion, admitting the truth. “It’s how I cope. You were in the hospital and then busy with your mom, and the anxiety was just… monstrous. So, I gave it a job. I researched lupus, frankly. I went deep into journal articles about flare management, prognosis, and long-term care.”
I close my eyes for a moment, the memory of that terrifying deep dive fresh in my mind. “It was informative, yes. But it was also really, really scary, Maya. Reading those statistics, reading the list of complications… the only way I could manage the fear was todosomething. So, I finished the combo lessonplan guide, because that was something I could control. And I made a detailed, ten-point plan for how you should handle the HR meeting, complete with legal precedents and suggested language. You know, to give you control ofthatuncontrollable thing.”
I open my eyes and look at her shocked face. I can tell she’s speechless, so I continue. “I needed to do things, Maya. I needed to have a list of tasks that had satisfying, concrete completion points, or I would have just sat here and spiraled. I needed the routine, the climbing, the distraction of Tim, the guide, the research.”
She reaches up and touches my cheek, her fingers warm against my skin. “It scares me too, Zachary. The complications, the numbers. That’s why I hide from it. But I shouldn’t hide, and you shouldn’t have to carry the fear alone.”
“I know,” I say, covering her hand with mine. “Tim helped, actually. He’s been dealing with the same kind of anxiety for years because of his sister’s chronic illness. He said, ‘We’re just here for the good days and the bad days, Zach. That’s the only promise we can make.’ He said that’s how he approaches the fear and anxiety he feels for Eva.
Maya’s eyes widen slightly. “I love that. The good days and the bad days. It puts everything in perspective, doesn’t it? It strips away the pressure to be perfect and just makes it about showing up.” She takes a deep, cleansing breath. “From now on, that’s how I want to live. I want to live fully present for the good days, and I want to be prepared for the bad days.”
She turns her body fully toward me, her expression resolute. “And if you’re up for it, I want your help preparing for those bad days. Your anxiety is just as important as my health, and if making a plan helps you cope, then we make a plan together. We’ll look at your HR guide. We’ll talk about what resources weneed to have lined up. We do this as a team, Zachary. No more hiding and doing research alone.”
I feel a profound sense of relief. “Yes. Absolutely. I am always up for a plan.”
I smile, then something shifts in my expression. I remember the odd detail from this morning, something I hadn't connected until just now.
“Actually, speaking of plans and the combo lesson guide… there’s something else I discovered this morning. Something I need to tell you. It’s… bizarre, and maybe it’s nothing, but it hit me like a train.”
She leans in, sensing the gravity in my tone. “What is it?”
“When I was finishing up the guide, I was looking through the original materials, just checking for consistency. I found a piece of paper stuck to the back of the folder—a draft of some ‘suggestions’ for the curriculum that Dave had apparently made weeks ago.”
“Okay?” she prompts.
“The font. Rember the note about your lessons being poison and to watch yourself? The font was identical, Maya.”
I watch her eyes grow wider, the color draining slightly from her cheeks.
“No,” she whispers. “You can’t be serious. I thought that was such a common font.”
“It’s not. It’s an obscure serif font Dave loves to use for all his official memos, something I noticed because it’s so distinctively ugly. I’ve seen it on his lesson plans, his reports, everything. And it’s the exact same font as your note. I didn’t connect the dots at first, thinking it was just a hateful stranger, maybe someone from Trevor’s circle.”
I squeeze her hand, the fear returning now, but colder and sharper, focused on a specific target. “But then, thinking back, I recalled something else. A few weeks ago, right after thatmeeting where Trevor volun-told us to make the combo lesson guide for everyone, Dave made an off-hand joke in the teacher’s lounge. Something about ‘newbies getting all the attention and accolades when they haven’t even paid their dues.’ He laughed it off, but it felt bitter. It didn’t feel like a joke at the time, and now, it feels like a confession.”
We stare at each other, the same terrifying possibility blooming in the space between us. Dave, the seemingly friendly and gregarious coworker we both trusted.
