The last message is from this morning—her photo of the pigeon. I'd replied with a laughing emoji andWhere do you even find these?
Her response
I have a gift.
I scroll up, reading through the last few days of messages. Her daily schedule shares. My replies. Her questions about image sequencing. My suggestions. Little jokes. Easy back-and-forth.
It's been less than two weeks since I kissed her. Ten days of rituals that have already rewritten my mornings.
I can see it now—the shape of it. The routines. The plans. The 'in a couple weeks' that slipped out so easily. I'm building something with Sam. It feels good.
And permanent.
I close the laptop. Pick up my phone.
The Met exhibit isn't for two weeks. I don't want to wait two weeks.
I should text her. Make plans for this weekend.
Do what Wren said.
I type:Let's do something this weekend.
Delete.
Let's do something this weekend. You free?
I pause, thumb hovering over the send button. Then I force myself to tap it.
Three dots appear almost immediately.
Like what?
I pause. I don't have a plan.
I should have a plan. Sam's a planner. She'll want details—time, location, logistics.
I look at the Monet print on the wall above the couch, then back at my phone.
You ok with me making the plans? If you throw out an idea, you're in control.
Fine. But I reserve the right to veto.
That defeats the purpose.
I'm workshopping trust. Baby steps.
I smile at the screen.
Looking forward to it.
Me too.
I set down my phone, lean back against the couch.
There. Plans made.
I pick up my sandwich, take a bite. Still tastes like cardboard.
