"Decided yet. I know." She cuts me off. "That's what you told Eli too, right? And now he's not here."
The words hit harder than I expect. My throat tightens.
"I saw him yesterday," Shae says, quieter now. "At the feed store. He looked..." She pauses, searching for the word. "Sad, Hazel. Really sad. Not angry. Just... sad."
My chest aches.
"You did this five years ago," she continues. "Couldn't decide, so you just left. Didn't even tell him you were going." She holds my gaze. "You gonna do that to him again?"
"That's not fair—"
"Isn't it?" She stands, pushing back from the table. "Fall Classic is tomorrow. Your deadline is today. At some point you have to stop waiting for the perfect answer and just choose."
She heads for the door, then stops. "He's not chasing you this time. He told you what he needs. Now you decide if you can give it to him."
The door closes behind her.
I sit there in the silence, her words echoing.
At some point you have to stop waiting for the perfect answer and just choose.
She's right.
I've been waiting for certainty that's never going to come. Waiting to feel ready. Waiting for someone else to make this easier.
But no one's coming to save me from this choice.
***
Three o'clock comes too fast.
I'm in the barn, leaning against the tack trunk, arms crossed tight. One hour. That's all I have left. This morning it was nine hours. Then seven. Then five. Now it's one.
Footsteps echo. Mae sits down beside me without a word, settling into the quiet.
Finally, she speaks. "What do you want, Hazel?"
Not what I should want. Not what makes sense. What do I want.
My throat closes. "There's too much at stake."
"There always is," Mae replies. Gentle but firm. "But you still have to choose. What do you want Hazel?"
I shake my head. "There's Fall Classic tomorrow, and work is calling, and Eli—" His name catches. "I don't know if he'll even—"
"I didn't ask about any of that." Mae turns to face me. "I asked what YOU want. Not what everyone else needs. What do you want?"
The answer is right there. Burning.
I try to shape it smaller. "I don't want to make the wrong choice."
"That's not an answer."
My hands curl into fists.
"I'm scared," I admit quietly. "Of choosing something and realizing I can't carry it."
Mae nods. "I know you are."
