“Pick a Post-it. Any one that feels even remotely close to what you’re feeling right now.” She crosses her arms, settles back against the wall. “Say it out loud.”
The silence stretches. I look at the wall—at the chaos of colors and words, the overwhelming array of options—and feel my chest tighten.
“I don’t know what I’m feeling.”
“Then pick ‘I don’t know.’” She points to a gray Post-it in the corner. “That’s a valid starting point.”
“That’s not—” I hit the pause button. “I’m not going to stand here and read feelings off a wall like some kind of kindergarten exercise.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s ridiculous.”
“You said that already.” She doesn’t move, doesn’t push, just watches me with those steady honey-brown eyes. “Try a different reason.”
“Because I don’t need this.”
“You sat in the middle of the street because you couldn’t process a single difficult conversation. I’d argue you need exactly this.”
The words hit like a slap. Not because they’re cruel—they’re not—but because they’re true.
“Fine.” I move to the wall, jaw tight, hands clenched at my sides. My eyes scan the notes—too many options, too many feelings, everything jumbled together in a way that makes my brain itch for categories and hierarchies. Finally, I grab one from the red section and turn to face her.
“Pissed off.” I hold up the note. “There. Done.”
“At what?”
“At this. At you. At the fact that I’m standing in a break room at seven in the morning being asked to identify emotions like I’m five years old.”
“Good.” She takes the note from my hand, sticks it on a small board near the door. “That’s your check-in for today. We’ll track them over time, see if patterns emerge.”
“Patterns.”
“Mmm.” She moves to the coffee table, picks up the bingo card again. “Now. Next piece.”
“There’s more?”
“There’s always more.” She flips the card to show me a small section at the bottom I hadn’t noticed. “The greeting exercise. Every time you see me from now on, you choose how we greet each other. Options are: hug, fist bump, or verbal acknowledgment only.”
I stare at her. “Why?”
“Because physical touch is a way of connecting, and you avoid it unless you’re on the ice hitting people. Choosing a greeting forces you to consciously decide how much connection you want in that moment.”
“What if I don’t want any?”
“Then you pick verbal only.” She shrugs. “There’s no wrong answer. The point is choosing. Being intentional instead of just defaulting to avoidance.”
My chest cracks open, just slightly. A hairline fracture in the armor I’ve spent thirty years building. Because she’s right. I do avoid. I keep people at arm’s length through logistics and schedules and the constant forward momentum of responsibility. I can’t remember the last time I hugged someone who wasn’t family, the last time I initiated physical contact that wasn’t a hit check or a victory celebration.
“Okay,” I hear myself say. “Fine. Hug.” The word feels like stepping off a cliff without checking the drop.
Gisele’s eyebrows rise. “Really?”
“You said I have to choose. I’m choosing.” I spread my arms slightly, feeling ridiculous, feeling exposed. “Get it over with.”
She moves toward me slowly, giving me time to back out. I don’t.
When her arms wrap around me, and my brain short-circuits. She’s warm, solid, smaller than I expected even though I know exactly how tall she is. Her cheek presses against my chest. My hand settles at the small of her back without my permission, like it knows where it belongs. She smells like that floral sharpness I caught yesterday, expensive and completely her.
