She smiles too, warm but measured. “Anything you want to go over before signing?”
“There is, actually,” I say. “Though not about the project—that part’s an easy yes.”
Her brows pull slightly together. “All right. Go ahead.”
I take a slow breath. I’ve never liked confrontation, especially not with someone I admire as much as Dr. Kymbert. But disagreement isn’t disloyalty, and I believe in the kind that comes with respect.
“Something you said in the Galápagos stayed with me,” I begin. “You mentioned that women don’t have the same luxuries as men when it comes to how we’re perceived.”
Her mouth presses into a line, but she doesn’t interrupt.
“And… I get it,” I continue. “I really do. I’ve already felt it. The gaze that lingers too long. The assumptions. The extra mile we have to walk just to be seen at the starting line.”
I pause. Her face gives nothing away.
“But still—there’s something that feels backwards about accepting that as the unshakable truth. Science is supposed to reward curiosity. But women in science are often punished just for wanting more. For being too eager, too ambitious, too open. Like wanting too much disqualifies us from being taken seriously.”
She leans forward, elbows on the desk, rubbing the bridge of her nose like the words touch something raw.
“I understand,” she says at last, voice careful. “And it’s a noble sentiment. But Coralie—wishing and getting don’t always coincide.”
She holds my gaze as she speaks, and there’s something in it that borders on sorrow.
“I’ve been in this field for decades,” she says. “And yes, we’ve made progress. But not nearly enough. And certainly not fast enough to match the urgency of your generation. The system still asks women to prove they belong before it lets them contribute. Every advance we make comes with a whisper of doubt. And I fear you won’t be the exception.”
Her words settle over me like smoke. Heavy. Familiar.
I hesitate. Just a second. Then I feel it—my spine straightening, my pulse evening. That subtle but unshakable sense that I know who I am and what I’m worth.
She has a point, I know she does. But ambition is the art of refusing the smaller script, even when it fits you like a glove. Gloves are warm; they also keep you from touching what you came for.
I tap the tip of my fingers on the stack of books on my lap. “You asked me a few weeks ago about STEMromances.”
She nods, but I can tell she’s not following me, or where this is leading.
“I’ve read more of them than I should probably admit outside of my journal,” I continue with a small laugh. “The female main character is often mocked for wanting too much. But wanting deeply seems to always be the first act of courage.”
Her face changes in that subtle way it does when the wheels start spinning behind her gaze. “I take it this is about Mr. Wilkes.”
I want to be shocked at how clearly she reads the situation, or maybe has read it for a while, even. But as much as Holden is who I want, I’m here for me.
“This is about me,” I correct with a smile. “You see, if there’s one thing I learned from reading too many of these books, it’s that not giving it a try will always result in not getting what you want. But you will never run out of second chances if you keep making first attempts.”
Before she can refute, I power through.
“This one is my favorite,” I say, dropping the first book of my pile on her desk like a mic. “The main character? She’s a PhD student—brilliant, awkward, relentless. She strikes this fake-dating deal with her professor—mutually beneficial, strictly transactional—except it’s not. Because beneath it all, it’s about two scientists navigating the tightrope of academia and falling for each other in the safest, slowest, most considerate way.”
“Coralie, what is this supposed to?—”
I cut her off with the next book. “This one’s about a neuroscientist—top of her field, but constantly belittled by the men she works with. Until one of them—one who’s secretly admired her work for years—gives her the space, the tools, the support to be exactly who she is without shrinking.”
I’m on a roll now. I drop the third book beside the others. “And this one? It’s about a woman in theoretical physics and the man who challenges herwithout ever trying to dim her. A man who holds real power over her future and still chooses, over and over, not to misuse it.”
Dr. Kymbert picks up the books, turning them over, inspecting the colorful illustrated covers—bright hues, smiling characters, mid-embrace. Whimsical, yes. But layered with something far more serious.
“These seem great,” she says, a little puzzled. “But I’m not sure I’m following your train of thought.”
A soft laugh escapes me, and I don’t even try to hold it back.
