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Because my grandmother hasn’t been feeling well, Mom and Dad decided to go to Romania for a while.

My parents are both Romanian. They moved to the U.S. about forty years ago. I was born and raised here, but every summer of my childhood was spent in Romania, at my grandparents’ house—long days filled with familiar voices, open windows, and that steady feeling of belonging.

I speak Romanian fluently. I grew up with it and heard it constantly around me. If anything, it shows in my English—there’s always a trace of it in the way I pronounce certain words, more often than people say.

“How is Grandma feeling?” I ask before she gets the chance to answer.

A flicker of guilt tightens in my chest.

I felt awful for not being able to leave with them, but I was already in the middle of a project when my aunt called to tell us Grandma had been admitted to the hospital after feeling unwell. I told myself I’d wait, see how things evolved, and make a decision based on that.

But then Sara and Maya called. They asked me to take on the design for their son’s new chain.

I wanted to refuse. I really did.

But I also knew exactly what a project like that would mean for my portfolio.

“…Honey, can you hear me?”

“Um… yeah, yeah. Sorry, Mom.” I straighten slightly, forcing my voice to stay even. “I’m just trying to figure out my timing so I don’t miss my flight.”

It’s easier to say this than admit I feel guilty for not being there with them. Easier than saying I’m worried.

“I won’t keep you long,” she says quickly. “I just wanted to make sure you’re okay…”

A pause follows. One long enough to invite me to respond, to leave space for honesty—but I have nothing I’m willing to give voice to right now, so I let the silence sit.

“And to tell you how happy I am that you’ll be working with Zayn,” she adds, her tone instantly brightening. “Sara and Maya told me he decided to collaborate with you.”

Even though she can’t see me, I grimace.

Doamne. (EN: God.)

I’m a successful interior designer. I run my own company. I turn down dozens of projects every month—not because I want to, but because I don’t have the time.

When I told Zayn I am the best, I wasn’t exaggerating. I know what I’m capable of.

And I’m going to prove it to him. By the end of this, he won’t have anything left to question.

But now that Mom brought him up, that strange sensation creeps back in—the same one I felt the moment he touched my hand. Subtle, unexpected… unsettling in a way I can’t quite name.

I don’t understand what’s happening to me.

Not when I think about him.

Not when I hear his name.

“Yeah, I’m going to be extremely busy for a while,” I say, keeping my tone calm. “But please, let me know if anything happens with Grandma. If I need to be there, I will be, Mom,” I add, more serious now. “I mean it.”

I need her to understand that nothing matters more to me—not even the work I care so much about.

“Yes, honey, we know,” she replies gently. “We have to leave to catch visiting hours at the hospital. We’ll talk when you land in London, alright?”

“We love you,” I hear my dad call from somewhere in the background, his voice muffled, like he’s already out the door.

“I love you too. Kiss Grandma for me.”

I end the call before my voice has the chance to betray me, before it can crack under the pressure building in my chest.