I glance out toward the runway, the volcanic ridges of the island just beyond it. This place changes you—quietly, slowly, then all at once. And the chickens in Hawai‘i? They make a lot more sense now.
The professor turns to me. “Coralie, could I have a word?”
I nod and follow her through the low hum of the airport, stealing glances at the small terminal windows to make sure our flight isn’t ready for boarding. She stops just outside, near a mosaicorca sculpture—its ceramic tiles glinting faintly under the overcast sky—and faces me fully.
“How was your time here?” she asks. Her voice is calm, but I can tell it’s a warm-up, not the main act.
“It was incredible,” I answer honestly. “Thank you again for letting me be part of it.”
She nods slowly, then crosses her arms with the kind of grace only she can pull off—soft-spoken, elegant, yet radiating the kind of authority no one dares challenge.
“I’m glad to hear that.” A pause. Then: “How would you feel about another opportunity?”
The corners of her mouth lift, just slightly, and my pulse skips. She continues before I can say a word.
“There’s a project coming up in O?ahu—mercifully close to campus—focused on the ecological impact of coral loss in benthic-organism-dense zones. I’ve been meaning to bring a student on board, and your name came up more than once. From my own observations, yes, but also through effusive praise.”
My breath catches. “I—yes. I’d be honored. Absolutely honored.”
I sound a little breathless, maybe even dazed, but she only seems amused by my enthusiasm. She offers a small, knowing nod.
“I thought you might feel that way. I’ll send you a full brief when we’re back at the university—scope, deliverables, timeline. Take your time before giving me an official yes.”
She extends her hand and I shake it, the weight of it grounding and thrilling all at once. I want to promise her right here and now that I’m all in, but before I can speak again, her expression shifts—morethoughtful, more precise—and she holds on to my hand just a second longer than necessary.
And then she says, “One more thing?—”
Her grip tightens imperceptibly—enough to make me pause—and her gaze sharpens the way it does right before she delivers hard truths wrapped in soft tones.
“I also want to say this now, before we’re back on campus, where things tend to get... muddied,” she says. “You’re incredibly capable, Coralie. Curious, methodical, inventive. The work you did here—your instincts in the field, your adaptability—it all stood out.”
My cheeks heat, not just from the humidity.
“But,” she adds, and there it is—that inevitable conjunction that always signals a shift in gravity. “In this field, perception can matter just as much as performance. Sometimes more.”
I look at her, unsure what she means exactly, but the tightening of her jaw suggests she she’s about to let me know.
“We can’t afford to be messy. Or impulsive. Or eveninteresting, sometimes. There’s a version of us that makes people comfortable, and we have to fit it. We have to be sharp but polite, driven but not aggressive, brilliant but never too confident about it.”
Her eyes meet mine with unsettling calm.
“People like me… we had to learn that early. If there’s even the shadow of a question—about our choices, our relationships, our motives—it’s enough to close doors you’ll never even see were once open.”
She’s not angry. Not judging. If anything, she sounds almost… resigned.
“This is a prestigious opportunity, Coralie. And you’ve earned it. But perception matters. And the truth is, women in science don’t get tojustbe scientists. We have to be palatable. Impeccable. Above suspicion. Always.”
I want to say something. I want to askwhywe still play by these rules. Why we have to keep smiling as we shrink ourselves down to fit some ideal that was never built for us in the first place. But I just nod.
“I understand,” I say.
She gives a small, approving smile, then turns toward the terminal. I follow her inside, even though something heavy has settled in my chest. Something quiet and splintering.
Because she meant it as advice. As protection. And that’s what makes it worse.
It’s the oldest equation: woman + brilliance ≠ enough. There’s always something else to subtract.
And part of me wonders—if I keep walking the line she just drew, how much of myself will I have to shave off to stay balanced?
