"Yes," I whisper.
"Then that's what matters right now. Not labels, not categories, not a five-year plan for your sexual identity. Just that you want her, and maybe she wants you, and you're allowed to see where that goes."
I want to argue—I want to explain that it's not that simple, that there are complications, that I can't just feel things without understanding them first—but the words don't come.
Because maybe it is that simple. Maybe I've been making it complicated because simple is terrifying.
"I don't know how to do this," I say instead.
"Nobody does. That's the secret." I can hear Nadia's smile through the phone. "Look, I have to get ready for work. But can I give you one piece of advice?"
"Please."
"Stop running away from the kitchen. Whatever's happening between you two, you're not going to figure it out by hiding."
I laugh despite myself. "How did you know I ran away from the kitchen?"
"Because I know you." Her voice softens. "Call me later. Tell me how it goes."
I hang up and sit for a long moment, watching the lavender fields stretch toward the mountains. The sun is higher now, burning off the morning mist, and the sky is that particular shade of blue that doesn't exist anywhere except here.
Maybe it's time to stop building boxes.
I go for a run—a long one, pushing myself harder than usual, trying to process with my body what my brain refuses to accept. By the time I get back, I'm sweaty and exhausted and slightly more sane.
Cat is on the terrace, reading a book in the afternoon sun. She looks up when I approach, and her expression is careful, guarded.
"Good run?"
"Yeah." I stop a few feet away, catching my breath. "Listen, about this morning—"
"You don't have to explain."
"I know. But I want to." I swallow. "I was weird. I'm sorry. It wasn't about you."
"Wasn't it?"
The question hangs between us. Cat's eyes are steady on mine, and there's something in them that makes my stomach flip—hope, maybe, or fear, or both.
"Are you good?" she asks softly. "You seem... not okay."
I could lie. I could deflect, change the subject, retreat back into the safety of small talk and carefully maintained distance.
"I'm figuring some things out," I say instead. "About myself. About what I want." I pause. "It's taking longer than I'd like."
Cat studies me for a long moment. Then she nods, slowly, like she understands more than I'm saying.
"I'm here," she says. "When you figure it out. If you want to talk."
"Okay."
"Okay."
We look at each other across the terrace, and the air is thick with everything we're not saying. I want to close the distance between us. I want to be brave enough to take what I want.
I'm not there yet. But maybe I'm getting closer.
"I should shower," I say finally.
